This was not five hundred years ago or even one hundred and fifty; it is today.
It was a difficult resurrection again today
from the warmth of my overnight tomb
and I wondered with doubt whether going to church
was an appropriate response to the death of God;
but, with duty I did—
although without anticipation or expectation.
I was greeted with poetry and pottery,
the sung and spoken word with feeling,
provocative and dramatic tableaux,
the pounding and tickling of keys on strings,
silence haunting and beautiful (I could use more of this in church),
and an art walk to Emmaus;
I don’t know if I encountered divinity
but Niagara was waiting behind my eyes.
Then my granddaughter
gave me a glimpse of Easter early
as she pirouetted around the parking lot
with last season’s sticks and leaves in hand
and the unblemished purity
of just being