Waiting for Sunday

Yesterday yeilds to this Saturday
wounded for our transgressions

Friday was gray, though I wanted both the day and my thoughts
to be black with the fullness of the grief
stricken, smitten of God
and then I beg to be allowed to
surge early to the joy.

And now there is today.
How strange
Strange that there is life
and I am writing,
wishing to leap early to the joy.

The sun came up today, how callous and indifferent:
and my throat stops, small emotion this.
Why was the rain yesterday
only gentle?

despised and rejected
Cold indifferent apathy to
the drama that must claim every eye.
Do you not know that you cannot cannot finish this breath until
tomorrow?

by his stripes
Why did my guilt not stop me still:
a stone like my heart?
One more night and then
I will tell you why--
the whisper I cannot form until
the morning.
silent
The shouting and the bleeding stopped last night.
Now there is only silence
and we are waiting.


[because I am too self-conscious to post this on a public blog]