Good Friday thoughts

At Home, Holy Week

I ready myself for His resurrection
by listening over the phone
to a poem about grace
while rinsing asparagus in the sink.

I prepare dinner and all other kinds of feasting
with an eye on my unschooled and naughty soul.
While I stir and chop and fold and whisk,

Like David does in the Psalms, I address my own soul
with straight-talk:
"I'm getting to you," I insist.
"You are next on my list."

I ready myself, leaning against the kitchen sink,
bracing against the cold stone
that is lodged fast over the portal
which leads to the astounding proof that He is not there.

The dousing truth of His rising
can wash clean the gutters of my slovenliness
if I dare allow.

Is not this the reason for a week such such this?
The reflection, the posing, the remembering,
the sadness we don like a costume?

Amidst the clutter and common steps,
and the untended garden
to every weeping disciple holed up in shame-

He comes
fully risen, once again.
just as He said.