Friday, March 10, 2017
Cold, this place, but dry
and airless, till the flurry
of activity and winding cloth
stirs air and dust both into motion.
Strong odors, too, of myrrh and spices,
itching at the nose while masking other,
all too human, scents.
(Doubtless through the tears
some poor soul tries to press away
a sneeze.) How many fail to hide their
trembling - fear and deep exhaustion from
the night and day now passing?
No one lingers. Now the men are pushing
at the stone, while women watch in silence,
save for groans from one who groaned before,
when pushing that poor body into life.
Now slip away, for soon those under orders
will approach in boredom
and take up their station (soon to fall to sleep),
resenting their assignment meant to to stop a pointless theft.
So too will they approach, unseen,
unseeable, those hosts of wondering angels
once again, not to sing Gloria - not just yet, at least -
but waiting for the earthquake soon to come.
And it will come to wake the sleeping and the dead.
But not just yet.