ManicDDaily

Heart of Stone

One of the miracles of Easter, it increasingly
seems to me, is that the stone
at the tomb was moved.
Stones
are heavy; they tend,
in stories of great import,
to be obstinate.
(Think of the re-roller of Sisyphus, the innumerable boulders
that hound Wiley Coyote, the uncaring pyramid of Aida.) 

But this stone
was moved–
not with grunts and conniptions, chains tied
to a flatbed, crushed toes or blistering hands
(shaken in thin air to take away the
sting)– 

I am not particularly devout.  I am sometimes even
suspicious of religion (especially when
capitalized).  But I’ve also been closed out
by death, my loves shut down, and know that if I were
a stone, the sorrow of each loss would crack me right
to the crystal, squeeze out sanded tears that would wash
the feet of any who came near, break
the heart of heart in me, turn shale to dust, till we
together, my loves and I, could mingle one more time.

No wonder the stone was moved, and yet,
yes, wonder.