ON FAITH
I thought this was the season of the resurrection,
the time when we unwrapped our shrouds and
found new skin, shed the carapace of so many
unoriginal sins. I thought the only stones
were those rolled wide to set the risen free,
not those hurled by other hands, nor rocks
that worked their way into my clutch, cutting
deep. I thought I was supposed to speak
in tongues, bud from bulb in sunny
comprehension. Tomorrow the resurrection
may light my lips and face. But tonight I wait
crouched close to earth, a crocus fearing frost.
Copyright © 1999, 2000 by Jennifer Ley. All rights reserved.
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