Who Will Roll Away The Stone?

Can you hear
the low rumble
of their question,
the imperceptible

tremor
of footfalls
winding
to the tomb?

Their baskets
overflow
with aloe and myrrh
and the longing

to be buried
in the quiet
work of anointing
rather than

worrying about
the entrance,
the stone fixed
before the mouth

and the stifled heart
beaten within.
But listen!
Notice the fresh beat

of wing
pulsating the air—
such a rush
you wonder

every mountain
doesn’t bend
in worship,
sight now silenced

by white raiment
and that first day
word lifting
from the tongue

like the heave
of the moon
rolled back
to the horizon

making way
for the blare
of sun.