Garden Song

In two gardens may you meet him,
But not one without the other, ever.
Although Thursday’s moonlight
Edges the olive leaves,
The darkness augments
Here in this anguish place,
His figure bowed by the weight of the world
And the wood.
The second is Sunday’s,
Where grief’s refuge, numbness,
accompanies the dawn until the word is spoken-
Life’s triumphant, simple token:
The name, the pledge, “Mary”.