Good Friday

Pulls its covers

Over its ears

And hunkers down

To think

Of a day long ago

When the earth shook

And a curtain was torn

And blood was spilled

From a vessel

So pure

And selfless.

And why is it called

Good Friday?

The wind is calm

And rivers high,

Rushing over dams.

And April has some days

Left before it turns

To May.

The town grows still

And holds its breath.

The days are strange,

Unsettled,

And we long for peace.

Why is it that peace

Has never come?

Marble Hill Press