The grass had been flattened by footsteps, Smeared by mud and blood. I have pruned, planted, tended, tidied This garden since before you were born, But this was damage beyond my fingers’ dexterity. I arrived early that morning, as always. The grass was virgin And the crushed rose of Sharon by the side of the grave Had revived.
I don’t write much free verse, but occasionally a poem positively wants to be in free verse, in which case who am I to say it nay? Admitedly, I did write a metered, rhyming version of the above poem before conceding defeat, but the three people I shared both versions with all slightly preferred the free verse one, and I did too, so here we are and here it is.
Here it is, a poem about the resurrection, and it’s not even Easter Sunday. I’m slightly annoyed I didn’t write it in time for that particular day this year, but I was too impatient to hold it back until next year. And of course, the resurrection is worth being celebrated every day anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. What better way, then, to start your week, to start my week, than by remembering that light comes after darkness, hope after despair, joy after sorrow, life after death?
Amen!