December 31, 2020
Here was the gardener, he whose hand had laid
The body someplace else
A servant waiting standing, and before her
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;
Her name declaiming detonates: Rabbonai!