Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 21, the Widow

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

xxi the Widow


A widow from Nain bore her son again, though

     this time on an open rick, bound lifeless, spiced,

in linen wrap.  Her death-wail led the lamenters


and sack-cloth shriekers up the highland scarp

     to rock-hewn tombs.  Sliced by the horizon's

edge, the sun oozed a mass of  bloody reds.  Yeshua,


with his disciples, moved aside to let the mourners pass.

     The mother's grief so pierced the dust-shimmered,

fading light and startled air, who among the crowd


didn't feel overcome?  The boy was half her flesh,

     the only one who could console her loss, he, lively

center of her every waking moment, now decaying


 in the heat, a feast for flies.  Yeshua touched her arm.

     In her eyes he saw his own reflective wound.

Was she the child, broken, once an instantaneous


spark seeded in her mother's womb, once a pre-

     existent flash across his mind how many aeons back?

He laid his hand on the young man's chest.  I say to you,


arise.  How long a spirit tarries, waiting, watchful,

     three days or none, an over-shadow of what

is vacated, slightly stunned, seemed moot:  he sat bolt


upright.  He inhaled a ragged breath.  What he said,

     no one recorded.  The mother clasped her son, wept

louder.  Others were unrestrained, in pandemonium.


Did Yeshua join the celebrants processing back?  Did

     the young man stagger a step?  Recall being gone?

Did any follower feel the sudden chillier rush of air?