On Sunday mornings in her pew her countenance was numinous,
her eyes benign, her serene smile was nothing short of luminous,
but by that evening, she had shifted to a mood bituminous.
Dark skies, in short. Her mood and look becoming less than cheery
as she descended into attitudes more dark and dreary—
cantankerous and woebegone, martyred, doleful, weary.
As luck would have it, those of us that she deigned to call friend
suffered through each dark spot, just praying for its end,
waiting for the skies to clear and for her mood to mend.
And sure enough, after a week of musings mired in dolor,
clouds parted and her mental weather slowly crept toward solar,
her mood-swings forming textbook illustrations of bipolar!
If only we could find a way to keep her on her perch
balanced there with hymnal on her pew of gleaming birch,
for the only time we’ve respite is the time she is in Church!