The Sun rose, brilliantly
and unforgettably wise.

She yearned to
mislay indelible
desolations,

While iron hands
clutched scents of
impossible reverence,

The reliquary’s shining
witnesses requited
by tear-drained eyes.

How she turned from them!

“Where is He?” she
demanded of a lowly
Gardener,

barely a shred of
her former self
in evidence.

“Mary,” He said, the
only word the moment
could demand,

The first word on
the first day of a
recalculated infinity.

Michael James Fitzgerald

See John 20:11–18.