By Julia Welch- Whispering the Power of Resurrection Day
The Light is too bright
piercing stabs of light and salty river
The heart yearns to belong
but it hurts, it is not comforted
It longs for something deep, steep
It weeps with veers and fears
Wearily, the promise of death seared.
The tongue pleads to remove this fear
Mixed with blood and mud
Air it out until the wet edges of these lips become cracked like dry leaves in winter
An answer? Naught.
‘Tis shut, in the dark silent void
The cave of silence is darker than any night sky or oblique forest
There is no strain of the nightingale’s voice, the garden is poised
Gray people, gray sieves, gray cries and sighs cannot compete
To the back that is turned in silence
Abandoned.
Whoosh swish, rustle, sigh, windless exile of ghost and air
The gray gathers these shards of bread and these spills of wine
These stones in that windless cave
With cracks of light making invisible dust visible
Light; soft, shimmery, earthly
Brilliance punctured with blood,
These cries, these deaf defying hands and feet
Steeped in belonging, deeply, fully satisfied is the Light
He heard.