Even Easter is too much.
God, some days I’m too spent for passion.
My soul sheer as glass
that any movement beyond still composure
will cause the whole to shatter.
So Easter, I cannot come to you,
remember you by entering in
to this long Saturday vigil,
the wringing of hands and handkerchiefs
that is the after taste of grief.
I must keep somehow alive,
as my small protected paradise,
or bubble of precious blown glass,
the foreknowledge of a Jesus risen,
to counter the one lying entombed.
Yes, sometimes Easter is too much,
with its Sunday coming but not here yet.
How we are promised rest and no more tears,
but are living each day still
in a story unfinished.
So instead, I ask for you to be the quiet sea lapping at my shoreline,
the tui’s call that surprises in its proximity,
all those small ways you, resurrected one,
might love me,
in this house of glass
I am curled within.