Following Easter, Fog and Light

by David Wyatt

A day could go in several directions, noise
Everywhere when I glimpse a familiar Presbyterian spire.
Monday doesn’t work so well for churches.
Even suddenly appearing doors, thick as a vault’s,
A splash of sad red paint.  They are fog soon
Along with Jesus, released again from the tomb.
Vagaries of shadows and stained-glass,
Decidedly clearer this morning, now amid siren wail.
The opportunist has his hands full of perfect
Chances; meet, for instance, the ambulance
At the sufferer’s house — who’s to know the one
Injured, or shouting “false alarm.”