She does not enter the garden. The olive trees keep their own counsel, leaves whispering a grief meant for men who will not stay awake. Mary waits where the path thins— not close enough to interrupt, not far enough to flee. She hears nothing clearly. Only the ground breathing. Only the night tightening its grip. Only a weight in the air that presses like a hand over the mouth of the world. Inside, someone kneels. Outside, someone keeps vigil. She does not pray for escape. She has learned that love does not bargain. It listens. It endures. It lets the dark finish speaking. A disciple’s snore drifts toward her, soft as betrayal. She does not judge. She knows fear has many postures. When the garden begins to tremble— when footsteps gather like a verdict— she straightens, already standing where tomorrow will need her. She will remember this night without words. She will carry it like oil, sealed, unbroken, until the stone is rolled away.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 2nd, 1926 at 2:37 pm and is filed under Free Verse. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
