{I have been contemplative over the difference of this Easter compared to any other one in my entire life.  It has me looking back, at old poems, old journals, etc.  Thus the spate of poems 3 decades old.

I have changed a lot, and I think that is good.  I think my poems are better now, too…Terraces, right??

This poem was the first poem about Easter for me.}

He sat in the straw
mute as a rock
crudely undone.

Ranker than swine
coarse to our nails
we swung to our job.

Infected with Truth
He hung in the dust
Drenched to His Skin,
Bleached to His Bones.

Then He went
all the way
coming to
common terms
with loss as
Blind as Wind.