A poem towards Maundy Thursday
Some days later, stretching out his hand
to pluck an olive to his puckered mouth
he remembered her hands and her hair,
how the scent of nard filled his mind,
overwhelming the taste of the food
with the sweet and bitter tang of love;
his mother and the oil she used
to anoint her firstborn son.
He arose, stripped down like a child
playing around the feet of the adults
at table, began to wash them,
wondering at how time callouses us all,
however much tenderness is folded in.
“Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” (John 13:35)
over the water 