Gethsemane, by Mary Oliver
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.
Blackened breezes rustled/ all
Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscles thick.
I was seeing/ a sight
More than seasick.
I see him, knees bloodied,
Face drawn/ down
to earth.
I was being/ once/
Just a man also.
I spied/ by my back down
To my murk/
I cried/ by my own shadow,
But did not cry out,
To interrupt all that too intimate.
.
When I was a young/ more willful man,
I fasted/ from dawn friday
Until the last of easter/ Today
I’m past that/ I take the families
To the best italian place,
For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine
& all before that, maybe grace.