Good Friday: A Poem

A cold Friday in early spring

Found me digging in the dirt

Hands bare

Back bent as if weeping.

Friday watched as I sliced my finger on a shard of green glass:

A translucent tombstone.

Under it, lay a worm

Green

And shriveled in death, 

Mourned only by the daylilies swaying and sighing above.

Friday and I 

wept.

Friday said she could not bear this death also

The same day as the other that was to come at dusk.

I could not comfort her.

So we sat

Side by side

Friday and I

And the heat of my body warmed her fading body

And told her what my words could not say:

This Friday of grief must pass away.