i read about a mother
who had an only son
cut down in his prime,
just north of 33.
she stood at his graveside
weeping, watering
the freshly-dug earth
with her tears, waiting.
nothing turned but the worms.
i read about a mother
who had an only son
cut down in his prime,
though who knows how old.
she walked to his graveside
weeping, watering
the deeply-worn road
with her tears, wailing.
and then the scene turned.
do not weep, daughter,
came a voice from the crowd
and out stepped a man
not much older than her son.
he strode to the bier’s side
bidding, speaking
young man, i say to you
now is the time for waking.
and the dead man turned, and rose.
do not despair, sister,
i pray as the wind roars,
myself an only daughter
now north of 33.
i read about a mother
whose firstborn son
was cut down in his prime
by all the evil there ever was.
but three days later, death
was turned upside down.
