PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The night before last,
we could not even embrace each other---
stunned, we were, into stumbling shock.

Last night we made love,
like those desperately seeking comfort
before the abyss of eternal hopelessness.

This morning's dawn seemed different somehow:
the light softer, the air more flower-fragrant,
and birds from somewhere chirping, and the dew cooler.

We rose, with our grief almost too calm to be grief,
like a parenthesis between before and after,
the one too terrible, the other unknown.

Then we heard of it, all afternoon:
the empty tomb; the risen, regnant Christ;
and later, of those who had conversed with Him

beyond the old world and its severances,
the shrill shriek of all griefs and the shroud of sorrow
abandoned like grave clothes in a temporary tomb.

Tonight, we could not make love---
too tired for all of the day's excitements,
and the old world, with its doubts, passing away.

Tomorrow night, we will make love
like all of us were meant to, from the sixth day formed,
the hours no longer numbered less than the last.

Starward

[jlc]