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. |