Resurrection Sunday

The house is still and quiet

No bells or flowers adorn the doors

No voice takes up the cry, “He is risen”

Granola patters in a plastic bowl

Hot water trickles through coffee grounds

Cracked fingertips turn wispy pages

Foggy eyes make out the words:

“But in fact Christ has been raised”

A sleepy mind ponders the great question:

“O death, where is your sting?”


The stinger is still lodged inside

Piercing every untracked hour and day

Toxins flow through the veins

Of a civilization in cardiac arrest

A swell of hearts gasping for air

Behind barred bedroom walls

Aimless fingers tapping in place

Behind masks that leave faces bruised

Obscuring all but the weary tears

Tears that know death’s sting


But there is yet breath, a beating pulse

A song that refuses to die

Outside the air smells like a flower in bloom

Birdsong skips above the quiet interstate

Cherry blossoms burst forth

In constellations on gnarled, mossy limbs

The tulips bear witness

Crying with shouts of red! yellow! magenta!


Frost recedes across the hoods

Of unmoving cars lined along still streets

It cannot hold out under the rising sun

It cannot hold out under the clear spring sky

It cannot hold out

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