lenten journal: finished

“It is finished,” you said.

When we finally get
to ask questions
you will be answer,
mine will be, “What
did you mean?”

I’ve taken my shot
at explanations;
the words matter
too much to let them
just hang there.

Yet even when I look
back from Sunday,
full of resurrection
neither life nor death
will be done.

I dug in the dirt
from noon till three
pulling up the dead
stalks of last summer’s
tomato plants,

among other things:
nothing much ever
feels finished to me.
One day you’ll tell me
what it feels like.

Peace,
Milton