Holy Saturday

You must wait,
silent and hollowed as a gourd,
neither stirring at wind or sound,
music or the voices of chimes.

Do not listen to thunder
or watch for the screams
of lightning. Tremble
as it tears curtains,
the linen around your feet.
But when the storm quiets,
there may come a whisper,

a dull light glinting,
and you, suspended deep
in the womb of rock--
you may hear it.

In the striations of slime
and trails of mollusks,
there you will lower your head,
wait for the shade of a locust tree
to shift like clock hands.

Whether you wait for sunrise
or the sigh of a star,
whether you splay fingers
over rock, begging
a boulder to shift,
asking clay to burst into grass,
only wait.

You will hear what you need,
sense the movement of wings.