Like the Wedding Supper of the Lamb
The day the enemy eclipsed the sun,
we stumbled on the highway’s gravel shoulder,
tongue-tied, numb, cold, growing colder.
The adversary seemingly had won.
Tall grass bowed down. Deep called out to deep,
and miles away, you heard our nascent cry,
lighting candles to remand the sunless sky.
In death’s presence, you prepared a feast.
The city’s air slipped through the open window,
Orange flames grew tall, you poured more wine,
A hint of chopped mint calmed us as we dined.
Below us, the East River steadied its flow.
You gave us one warm evening of relief,
as we wander through this glacial grief.