Not by the gentle hand or tears of Mary, but by hands bronzed and timeless, the rock is rolled. This new wheeled invention is hard to grasp, the movement of heaven’s cogs purposeful and interlinked with plans hardwired into the very fabric of time. God’s well-oiled machinery releases the new wine, and out it flows, music of the spheres, trumpets muted by the world’s deafness nevertheless heralding the rebirth of the divine, with ten fingers and ten toes and the gaping wounds of having already, at so tender an age, made all well.
Mistaking the greater miracle for the gardener, we miss it, and stare, open-mouthed at heaviness made light, a strange emptiness, and notice only the absence of moss.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com