Buying Strawberries On Holy Saturday

In the parking lot

Of the Lutheran church

Are strawberries.

Flats sold for twenty dollars each

Help the blind to see,

Clear blurred vision,

Benefit the sight-impaired.

Across the lot from the tent-covered sale

In the unopened building

Is stained glass of the last meal,

Reds and purples darkened by closed doors

That will not open at dawn tomorrow.

In the church's final days,

Many had told me,

"Before the church closes,

you must go inside.

You must see the glass

From the inside looking out."

But I can only see

From the outside looking in.

I place one flat of strawberries

On the front seat of my car,

Between the dog and me.

The strawberries glimmer

In his eyes

As his moist nose creeps over them.

I wash one, and then another,

In the kitchen sink,

Pressing them

Between my thumb and forefinger,

The red juice seeping down my hand

And onto the dog's waiting, lapping tongue.

He drinks a holy fruit

Here on the outside

As disciples sit dark and frozen

On the inside

Of silent glass. 

(Originally written on Holy Saturday of 2014. Revised on Holy Saturday of 2018.)