Holy Saturday

My god—my apple blossom, my stand of crocus coming
through the tubers of the iris, my blue crown, my

iridescent night, my star strand, my golden: Even 
the dolors of the world can’t efface the physics 

of light or the way your Being
crosses into my sight and becomes: Real.


// 


The end of the world is here and the beginning
of the world. Is here. You who died are alive

today, I mean, you who died are dead, and we
the living are alive today, and dying, today, 

like you, the dead, there at the end of the world,
which is to say, here, now, the beginning.


///


I said, I wrote your name in my book. During the litany 
of saints I sang it in the tiled hallway. It flew

above the altar as a moth, catching the light, gilding
itself to the world. Your name fluttered around me,

lighting in me, at which point someone again began
the litany: All you holy men and women. Pray for us.


////


Bees working in pollen and a hologram of summer 
laid over the melting garden. Yesterday and today,

the beginning and the end, the Alpha, the Omega, 
all of time, as water falls through the porch slats

and the waxwings reappear. Your branches go into
leaf. Come on, you say. Come to the water.