Ascension Thursday: gone again.
My usual panic every year
Sets in as the Easter season ends;
I’d hoped to reconcile everything,
To feel, just once, grace tremble near,
In a resurrected, fiery ring.

But dry distraction settles in,
And with a crow’s beak pecks my breast
With hungers and regrets. Small sins,
On which I’d neither think nor cry
In ordinary time, impress
Themselves, while my unsettled eyes

Are elsewhere turned. But, suddenly robbed
Of His face after these un-tombed forty
Days”intimate meals now that the mob
Had killed and left him with its dread”
My stare falls on the table emptied
Of his presence.
What now, now that He’s fled?

Articles by James Matthew Wilson

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