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Easter Sunday

The body in the tomb was deader than dead,
for not only had the flesh rotted away and the bones turned to dust,
But the soul had died also -
passed out of memory so long ago that she had forgotten who she was,
Having lived so long only as an image in other people's minds.

Come to think of it, even in her heyday
she had been rather insubstantial - a sort of shade among shadows
Desperately reaching for proofs of her existence;
but strangers buried her; picking over her small horde, they didn't know
What this pot meant or why that ornament -
And tossed some of it in with her and the rest consigned to oblivion.

Poor soul: every molecule dispersed
to some far corner of the universe

So He died that Friday and
appeared to that nothingness in her tomb

Within His eternity He had long years
to sit there, calling back the fragments of her existence,
And wrestle that angry soul back into life,
long years in that tomb with her stinking carcass, remembering gently
Who she had really been and could be.

Let us wait reverently by this tomb,
awaiting their emergence, wondering what He tells her
When finally she breathes on her own.
No day was lost because I saw each one, remembering you
Better than you did yourself.

We lost nothing,
didn't even waste anything

Even when you had disappeared
I lived for you in this empty room.

Comments

Abigail said…
You are an excellent writer.

I know you already knew that, but sometimes it's nice to hear from someone else.

The poem was not only elegantly crafted, it was full of soul.

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