Thursday, April 21, 2011

Forsythia in Gethsemane

I wonder if the disciples were expecting more from Jesus.  I wonder at His words in the dark garden, at his loving chiding about them not being able to stay awake, at their insistence that they were there for him.  I wonder if they felt anything but holy.  I wonder if He felt alone in that way we do when we*re facing something huge, and we can*t quite explain it to those around us, even those closest to us.

The road to church is lined
in forsythia.
On the way home it is dark.
I am sure the forsythia
Is still there.
Even so
I do not feel holy.
I feel anything but holy
Or even present to the holy.
I know it has to be there.
Still
All night
I see what is missing.
Even the memory of forsythia
Is not as bright
As it seemed two days ago.
I know it is still there
In the dark.
Forsythia
Will not be forced
Into existence
in the dark.

I wonder if there was forsythia
In Gethsemane.
If it bloomed lemon yellow
Before the leaves of summer.
I wonder If the Garden was prettied up,
Jesus monstranced in some sort of sunburst display
So everyone would know
Who he was.

Tonight I keep vigil at home
With my vase of pussy willows
sprouting green,
Forsythia from the backyard.
I do not feel holy
I feel anything but holy
Not even present to the holy.
I see what is missing.
It seems I may as well sleep
As stare at pussywillows and forsythia
In the dark.

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