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.
