Passover Comes

Passover comes with its
wandering, its breaking through,
with its lamentations and deliverance,
a vehicle of mystery punctuating the night
with its eternal voice.
Passover comes for the delivered,
the crouched down in the sand,
the wandering in the blackened forest
through halls of dust choking the words of
passage through a blistered throat of January,
crushed flowers awakening to freedom,
to rejoicing, to the imminence of all sacraments.
Passover comes to the followers huddled
naked and silent, forgiving and forgotten
the executioner’s frozen hand unmoving,
his will contorted, unraveled, his tears unfelt,
un-shed. Now we pass over this ground again
grieving for him, for the work undone,
for the world still broken,
bringing home the wandering self to
be delivered from its own stony gaze
in the mirror of days, from the bondage
of frozen stories, from hearts weighed
like snow-laden branches
impatient for spring.
This bleeding, these songs,
the prayers we repeat, the purity of this heeling
to the center, and being lifted by it,
fearing always a fracture at the root,
this is our winter and our holy spring.
We break, and we break through,
without breaking.

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