Good Friday

It rains.
An appropriate thing on this day of mourning.
dark clouds and cold.
A miserable reminder
of how the holy too, can kill their own God.

Cold.
But still, the first hints of spring.
Buds on trees. Berries, red and bright.
The drizzle, cold as it is, still melts the snow.

The prophets knew this.
Jesus himself knew this
as he hung on his ragged tree.
It was only us mere humans that forgot.
That forget

what follows the rain.

About this poem

Last night I went to a Maundy Thursday service, the Tenebrae (Latin for Shadow). It was misty and chilly. Today, Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified, it rains hard. Sunday, Easter, they predict sun.

The rain is chilly and cuts through you. But it is warm enough that it is melting the snow. I can see my flower beds for the first time in months. There are buds on my forsythia, one or two of them near erupting into yellow.

From those things, this poem.

Tom