{an Easter poem}

I sit on the rooftop to escape
the stifling sorrow below
and am greeted instead with mournful silence --
could it be? I cock my head
but no, even the birds do not sing
today
as if they, too, know
that their Maker lies sealed in a tomb.
Oh! That we had gone with Him,
or even in His stead,
that we had borne the pain
and now lay dead
but here is our punishment
for fleeing -- cowards!
to live without even birdsong.
And why should we know joy
when God is dead?

In the morning I return
to my silent hell upon the rooftop
as the sun begins to rise
on another meaningless day
and the women set out to embalm the body
-- his body.
And there -- a chirp!
But no, I am only imagining hope
where it cannot be
just as a rooster crows only
to mock poor Peter.
I can only pray he doesn't hear it --
pray to whom?
Do we even have that anymore,
as our Lord lies breathless in a tomb?
But birds have, indeed, begun to sing
and others join them in a lilting, crescendoing chorus
as the sun climbs higher
and the women come
running
yelling incomprehensibly
He is alive.