Peter's Report

Running all the way,
bent double in breathless pain
we peer and see
the gaping grave
open to the rising sun.

Slowly we enter, our eyes sun-blind,
when we see the empty bench,
the bloody cloth cast within.

I try to imagine
how light must have pierced the cloth,
the sudden shudder
of His broken body,
His sharp breath exploding
like a swimmer breaking the surface,

and I notice John’s eyes
outshining the sun,
and my own face
lighting even death's
darkest place!

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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