More a memory than a sense...

Holy Saturday in the church.
Empty, bare, stripped, dark.
Even the “Jesus-is-in” light is out,
He’s in repose, somewhere.

Cold, dark and even dank
Except for the faintest lingering whiff of incense,
A hint of sweetness, smoky and warm,
But only in my mind’s eye,

More a memory than a sense.

This is my Holy Saturday soul,
Empty, bare, stripped, dark.
No Liturgy, no sacrament,
No clinking, billowing incense-prayer,
Just the faintest lingering whiff,
The remains of what was,
​
More a memory than a sense.

But even the memory is fading,
And nothing I do entices it back.

(c) 2017 Larry Pizzi

And tomorrow is Easter.
Will I wake the dawn?
I want to, but I can’t find my lyre, my harp.
They are asleep somewhere.

Awake!
More of a plea that a shout,
Its echo fading with the incense,
More a memory than a sense,
My Holy Saturday soul.



(c) 2017 Larry Pizzi

(c) 2017 Larry Pizzi