On an Easter Morning

On an Easter Morning

Shame stays the fisherman’s hand
on the grey cold stone,
the rough-hewn opening of His tomb.

Eyes cannot pierce the darkness
cast by reluctance’s own shadow,
his broad-shouldered body occludes the entrance.

Guilt to meet His gaze.
Fear to find the form, still in death
wrapped tighter than a newborn
in his swaddling cloths.

Faith in women’s tales?
Swallow convulsively the taste of hope.
Pain to breathe, to dare belief—

Where are you Lord, brother, friend
— Father?
Plunge into the dark truth, the vacant reality.

Peter absently shreds, ties in knots
discarded linen strips.
Casts a net in search of deeper meanings.

c.Darlene Moore Berg

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