Poetry

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Like a green, delicate blanket
the grass stretches out over Golgotha hill
swaying in the wind
under the glare of the morning sun.

She runs away from the burial ground
towards His disciples
as seven devils ran from her.
Her white gown flowing like milk
against the pale blue sky.

Her emotions reeling like a spinning coin,
she clasped her hand about her lips
He is risen, ready to fly from her tongue
like a blue butterfly from a bethlehem lily
bleeding with nectar.
Her sandals scraping the ground,
breath ragged
hair tangled
traveling over the terrain.

The place of their dwelling surfaced
like a city on a hill.
She fell against the door,
resting her head for a moment.
Rushing forward with the good news

He is risen. Christ is risen.

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