The Garden

December 31, 2020

Here was the gardener, he whose hand had laid

The body someplace else

A servant waiting standing, and before her

Questioning herself

Gone Peter, and that unnamed one beloved,

They who had come running

Had seen, believed, a plainly staggering event,

He was not now here dead

But Thomas, absent Thomas, he improvidently howled

A loud rousing debate, and even after

A common voiced accord among his honest fellows

And followers, lended its weight against his single

Variance. This band who by immediate experience

Had come to understand…..


Still stood here in the garden, Mary, phased, a woman

Grieved, has deemed him an attendant menial churl

At gardening as he should

Has asked him: tell me, where is it you’ve laid him

I shall go there, decide the things appropriate.

Her answer moves her, answers all the askings

Of which she would;

In: Mary.

Her name declaiming detonates: Rabbonai!