Magdalen in Lent

As in Adam all men sinned
All women died in Eve
Imprinting crisp fruit with toothed mark
And so ashes, and death for forty days.

Soot is not the blackest dark.
Often waves have stilled, but this storm does not cease;
We creep to the only warmth we see
Only to cringe away from the fire at rooster’s crow.

Pain blinds us.
That great Heart that shook the world by stopping
Is lost, and we are lost,
Wandering, seeing no grace

Only the gardener.
Stubborn, we sit beside the stone
And ask for the one we need.
He speaks.

“Mary.”