Peacemaking is hard
hard almost as war
the difference being one
we can stake life upon
and limb and thought and love.
I stake this poem out
dead man to a dead stick
to tempt an Easter chance —
if faith may be
truth, our evil chance
penultimate at last.
not last. We are not lost.
When these lines gathered
of no resource at all
serenity and strength,
it dawned on me —
a man stood on his nails
as ash like dew, a sweat
smelling of death and life.
Our evil Friday fled,
the blind face gently turned
another way, toward life
a man walks in his shroud