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