This morning the son of God opened his eyes,
stiff and sore, his eyes gummed with clotted tears,
and stumbled to the door of the queer low room,
where the stone was rolled away.
Morning, sun washing roof and garden.
He looked a while, the horror fading,
listening to the birdsong. “I never get used to it,”
he thought, and ruefully smiled at the grave-wrappings
dangling from his wrists. The air was fresh.
He thought of you and grinned, at some
quick secret joke. “It's worth it, after all,” he thought.
“Now I wonder where a son of man gets coffee,
and this a holiday? And where shall I wash up?”