Easter Sunday

Whoops, this has been awhile, but . . .

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On this holy Sunday night I arrive to a home
that feels emptier than the grave of my
savior. I sit and look around.
I think of all my plans.
I stare--
But how little I have to do now.

It’s rainy today. At least it isn’t snow.
It always “could have been snow”.
“February was a warmer month than usual”,
I think out loud as
I shiver in my skin.
I look around.
“It could always have been snow”, I think
sheepishly to myself.

Jesus left the tomb for paradise today,
and a thief went with him.
But I still wonder where I came from?
And why did I go?
But I always ask that question.
And silent walls never answer, no
matter their color.