courtesy of the National Catholic Register
Holy Thursday. My intention to attend mass collides with our exhaustion. Mira and I both have not slept well the past two nights–she worse off than me. A simple marinara penne with tilapia and shrimp, a bountiful glass of burgundy or three, and our inevitable crash on the couch is our anemic celebration. I try not to hear Christ’s admonition: “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is week.”
Could you not keep watch with me?
Will all of you stay sleeping?
While I bear this symphony,
this funeral bell ringing?
Good Friday. An early morning mist fills the backyard. Slick grass and wet-stained pavers mark the passing rain. The sun tries once to shine through the gathered clouds, to no avail. But the songbirds still sing. I drive Frank to his track team practice, and I pick him up from it. Somehow these mundane activities are my whistling past an open grave. We will celebrate the Lord’s Passion at three. But until then? Another day off. No contemplation of the trancendant becoming eminant, of Life dying to reconcile the ignornant dying to Life.
My spilt blood upon the stones
My arms outstretched and nailed down
I give up this life on my own
for love, my eternal crown
Holy Saturday. We have no pets to be blessed. Simply the time to wait. Soon, we will stand beside the sacred fire. Our candelight procession will enter a dark Church. Soon will come the readings of Jewish scriptures, anticipating the mystery of Easter, which we all gather to celebrate at last.
See the harrowing of hell
the gates of Life thrown open
mystery for you to tell
and celebrate so often
first bloom of tulips
in the morning
for dVerse Poets Pub MTB–Tanaga, pubtended by Frank Hubney
UPDATE: and my current #Haikai Challenge