The rain has subsided for a time and you are wandering
through the ruins of the countryside, safe places,
filled only with ghosts and the rattle of loose window panes.
It is the day before Holy Week, a series of events
that shaped your history thousands of years
before you were born in that Air Force hospital in Virgina,
a journey from triumph to unimaginable tragedy
and back again, a journey that resonates
in your own life, an aspiration.
Thistles and weeds rattle, dry from the winter.
The beginning of color, new growth, red lines
waiting for the first buds.
The roofline of the small barn,
a victim of age and fire,
sags. Black burnt shingles litter the ground.
There is no going in here. Even in the brief wind,
the charred beams creak,
waiting for the final fall.
The rain returns, a cold drizzle.
you turn to leave, grateful
for your own easter journey.
About this poem
For Christians, Holy Week begins tomorrow, the last week of Jesus before his crucifixion, and before the resurrection. It is a week honored with special services and devotions, a time to think on our own spiritual journey, which is always such a ragged, up and down affair.
It also makes me think of our own time, of the sadness and fear of the disciples as life fell apart, unaware of the coming, unimaginable joy that was to come. It is a hard time we are in now. Like the disciples, we are disoriented and fearful.
But like the disciples, I believe there is light to come.