Gardening Holy Saturday

It is too bright for our eyes--
all this chartreuse and fuchsia
bursting through blossoms of
intense lily white. 

In the perfume of hyacinths
hanging humid and still
in the waiting air straining  
toward . . . something more,

we still hang suspended
in the tortured screams
of last night’s Good Friday  
whose darkness is our reality.

So this blasphemy of blossoms
on choired birds’ breasts
mocks us with hope
we cannot yet believe

but wish we could. 

Blinded and still,
we strain toward tomorrow,
perched to wait and watch
and perhaps to see

what rises right in front of us now.

                             © 2006, Tess Lockhart.  All rights reserved.