I can stand for hours

in the midst of a summer

garden—awash in silence—

save a symphony of lilting

birdsong, babbling brook,

and the rustling of wind

through weeping willows,

the wild lilac, and dripping wisteria.

I can wait there—longer

than the darkness and

sorrow of night—longer

than the brassy banging of

a mad world. It’s such a

small thing to linger in secret

and long for the fragrance

of the bright and sunlit lily

that rises with fire at the breaking

dawn. I can wait there— longer

than the blueness of betrayal and

sadness—until the death of death,

until the bitterness of myrrh is

crushed to sweetness by scaring

sacrifice. I can wait there until

the blood-soaked ground

howls, requited by the righteous

kiss of justice and mercy.