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
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