On the Sabbath after Jesus was crucified, the disciples rested. They were likely together. Peter, grief-stricken and ashamed after his three-fold denial. Perhaps John, and with him Mary the mother of Christ—his own mother now, by Jesus’ agonized request. Mary Magdalene, free from the demons that tormented her before she met the Lord. And all the rest, in shock and disbelief. We’re not told if any of them remembered this:
“As they were gathering in Galilee, Jesus said to them, ‘The Son of Man is about to be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him, and he will be raised on the third day.’ And they were greatly distressed.”
Matthew 17:22–23 (ESV)
This poem rests with Jesus’ disciples, waiting for Sunday.
They hung there
in the upper room
marcescent leaves in winter’s womb
senescent, curled and frangible,
their choking grief’s exigent pull
prevailed, all other needs subsumed
beneath its gravity. The tomb
consumed more than the Lord—the loom
that wove their hope discernable.
They hung there
a withered rose, a frost-killed bloom
but not like He did, no—His doom
they had not dared to share in full
whose words of life were tangible
and aromatic. Like perfume
they hung there.
Note on the title:
Marcescence is a natural phenomenon in which some trees, notably the American Beech and many oaks (we have both in our yard) retain their leaves all winter. They wither without falling off.
Note on form:
This is a rondeau. The Poetry Foundation has a great definition. I’ve used the 15-line variation on this form, rhyming AABBA AABc AABBAc with “c” being the refrain.
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I like your title!
"Marcesent" is a great word. You employed the image and metaphor brilliantly!