The Gardener’s Roses

by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed him,
by far the least . . .

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .

Faint scent of roses, then–a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true.
Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call–ecstatic crew!–
I gathered roses for a friend.
I waited here, for you.

 

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