It was November

The autumn of my years

The fall.

My Friday friend deserted me

And trees cried leaves in silence

Imitating sorrow

As I wept tears at our parting.

In January

On a Saturday Sabbath

I fretted and frayed on how

The stone that separated us

Might be moved

That I might come to Him though dead

To perform a last dead work.

But snows swept down while I waited

And dulled the sense of everything

Numbing me into ice-cold inactivity.

Came on July

So very early it was yet night

The Son not risen.

He called to me gently, persistently.

I saw no barrier

But that it was difficult

To properly embrace

A King whose crown was thorns

That I myself had fashioned,

And he broke my heart with His smile.

Sweet Jesus

My garden agony

Was on a Sunday Resurrection morning

Just before you harrowed hell,

And You Yourself brought peace to me

In the year of my Easter.