Writing a poem a day for the Center for New Americans November Fundraiser. May our work be worthy of the ones we welcome to our midst. This was day four, harder than day three.

Easter, Hours Before Dawn

I can’t see the clock. Is he up yet?

Who else shushed the angels? God

put the risen dead to bed last night

all tuckered out from three days back

alive while he stormed the caverns

of their demanded dooms

and made their tombs

ridiculous.

How can even he contain

- rein in –

laughter capable of parting seas

from the dry land,

before the mountains were

brought forth or ever they

hadst formed the earth

that morning so very like/so very unlike

this—the world has aged, and man— but for today

they hang the morning star

in reach of children, He has already

pulled the covers from the corner of the sky,

made coffee, stoked the dawn, called home,

sat down to wait.

Tapping his foot.

Drumming his fingers.

Love isn’t patient.

He might yet rend the night.

Love isn’t kind.