‘Rabboni’
Sunday morning;
my hands clasp jars,
oils to embalm,
needing to touch,
to comprehend
the black of death,
sense of ‘gone’.
I recall
the Friday path,
dreaded hill, where
his nailed hands, feet
gaped raw wounds.
My fingertips traced
his body wrapped
in cool cloth, my soul
entombed in shock.
Today I step
on sparkling jade,
as grass blades
tip diamonds.
I blink prisms,
as tears mingle
with blazing sun.
Startled, I halt.
The open tomb!
Legs stumble,
hands flail,
fail to find
his cloth form,
I touch cold stone.
Emerging, I squint
toward a sun-hazed frame.
‘Tell me Sir, where
have you taken him?’
‘Mary’
‘Rabboni?’
Copyright Anne Holland 2013