MIRACLE AT NAIN by Timothy Haut
Who is this In the frantic crowd Of nameless faces Who comes toward me, Hand outstretched? Get away! Get away! I have nothing to place in your empty palms For I am empty-- Except for curses, and tears. Still he reaches, up in the air at first, Somewhere high above the teeming sorrow Swirling around me like a storm. I watch him As he seems to hold the sun within his grasp, Then reaches back again to me, As if to spill its light upon my heart. And then. He lays his hand Upon my dead son’s breast, Speaks senseless words, And spills the light again. Who is this man who dares to touch the dead, Who has no fearfulness of death himself? He is the one who stands in my way As I go to bury my only child. He will always be in my way. And I think I will never get past him. I grasp his hand and clutch it in my own And wait For something like hope To stir again. (Comments to Tim at timothyhaut@yahoo.com.) Deep River, CT