Something stirs this early morning stillness
and makes solemn chant of bird song
and rooster crow. Something. It is
Sunlight seeping through fissures
between leaves, twigs, garden.
It is motion, painting wisp-clouds
from ash blue to sepia cotton
afire. It is a new spirit
Rising from frozen ground and
misty wanderings over sudden
turn of events. Yesterday.
And the day before.
An event, so unassuming
and bare, naked as bared plots
and crucifixions. Who is it
you are looking for?
No regalness, no Handel's Messiah here,
only the theatrics of an angel
perched on a boulder
Unrolled now, exposing
a gaping mouth, voiceless
on a stone wall; Moses on Mount Sinai
dispensing advice to
A couple or so women
staring; unaware of his own charm
or shock value: two guards, dead
frightened, on the ground.
He is no longer here.
He is risen.
Just like that. Just like that.
No ornate cathedral splendor.
No outburst of rainbow colored majesty.
No fiery phoenix he.
Excuse me, sir, are you
the gardener?
It is I.
No hero's welcome here
either, no victory parade.
But a homecoming, yes,
for a prodigal Son sans
The fattened calf. A private party then,
by invitation only, with warm anxious
embraces and holy kisses.
Be not afraid -- he disposing
the first order of the day.
Peace be with you. I am
hungry. What's for dinner?
Later we would begin to understand,
not too fully, just enough, elsewhere
the world blooms on its own, or so it thinks,
and men mind their own business.
But here, today, it is
different. It is the LORD!
23 November 2003
Rm 333, SHN, Novaliches
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