Holy Saturday
The calendar pauses while mourners plod home
Too fatigued to do more than pray.
Every turn of the beads scars their hearts
Reminding them of the man on the cross,
Has Thy will been done? Has Thy kingdom come?
Thumbs worry the beads with palm -sweaty prayers.
Glory be to the father and the son,
The man on the cross now perfumed and shrouded,
Entombed with ancestors in a rock -sealed cave.
Forever and ever, for now and ever more. . .
Decade by decade, the measured chants slow the mind,
Returning mourners to the moment;
To the promise of Resurrection,
The calendar beyond doubt’s reach.
© J. Howard 2015
J. Howard teaches writing and literature at Montgomery College in Rockville, Maryland, where she is also the technology editor of the Potomac Review. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications online and off.
very poignant