A Poem for Holy Saturday, Revised

Last year I wrote a poem for Holy Saturday, with a warning that it was likely not ready for public consumption. This Holy Saturday I've sanded it down a fair bit, and while it is still raw, it gets at something desperate that this day is all about in the cycle of Holy Week.


Oh God, I miss you.

I feel it heavy this morning.

I thought I could always come back –
walk away for a thousand miles and turn around
to see you keeping pace in secret.

Always with me.

I cannot feel your breath on my neck and
I cannot hear your footsteps.

There are no footprints in the sand.

When did you turn back?

All I find are questions now.

Is this heart-hole some holy proof?

Philosophy makes me seasick–
I just miss you.

You were always a shoreline.
Unmovable.
Tideless.

I could swim back to you
any day I wanted.

If I had wanted.

I cannot see the shore now.

I don't remember how to swim.

I have become afraid
of water.

Living water–
That’s what you offered me.

Living words.

I bought a new Bible last summer, 
but I lost it a month later. 

I am losing.

Where in the hell are you?

Every day is Holy Saturday–
A promise
barely visible
through the fog of loss

The clouds have drunk the seas
Release a rain that smells like home

To wet
To wash
To forget
To remember

The ground is thirsty

Oh God, I miss you