The sky a crisp and willing blue—
willing, too, the gardener’s hands
loosing the fig tree from its winter shroud,
branches still brittle, sap glacier-still.
Only faith perceives the life beneath the soil,
if life there be. We wait and see. We wait and see.
One thought on “Holy Saturday”
Comments are closed.
In this Ordinary Time 
Thank you, Christine for your post, and thanks to God for the gift of creativity with which you are blessed and your faithfulness in using it. Your poem says what I needed to hear today.
Easter blessings to you and your family,
Nancy
LikeLike