On this Holy Saturday, where there is a pause and those who knew Jesus are stricken, trying to make sense of what happened on Good Friday–where there is shock and grief and confusion, I offer this poem about a recent experience where I was stricken.
Stricken
the wild hare lies by the
side of the trail
shivering, eyes open in terror
seeping blood from nose
and mouth
we try to help
call wildlife rescue but
not much can be done it seems
I try to wrap it in my red fleece
but it scares and flops, flipping onto
the middle of the paved
trail where likely a bike hit it this
sunlit morning
stricken, we grieve this deep
injury, the innocent terror
helplessness
I cover it with my coat
gently pick it up, where it flails
then quiets seeming to know
I mean no harm
we look for a place it can die
in quiet, in sun, where it cannot
scare itself onto the path
but can breathe its last
scent of clover
it feels heavy, weighty
choosing a dying spot
I walk away
and weep
kac
2/9/16
PC: ianandhelen.co.uk, via Google Images
