Morning on El Cerro de Las Tres Cruces
April 7, 1997, San Juan, Teotihuacán, Mexico
With Rosa, I climb
El Cerro de Las Tres Cruces,
The Hill of the Three Crosses.
I see by early light how clean the wooden beams are--
no pigeon ever stops to rest
on these crosses,
bleached by silent, windy years.
I note how the crosses rise up like masts
on unseen ships
above an ocean of slate-gray rocks,
almost-green brush, and fields of cactus.
Squinting in the sun, I seem to glimpse
three men crucified.
On the center cross,
there is a Man I call my Lord
hanging beneath
the intersection of the crossbar,
tied as if by lanyards,
and nailed as if to resist
a pitching sea of darkness,
His arms stretched out to bear
the hard embrace of death,
His body alternately taut,
then straining, heaving.
His Spirit now finished
weathering our storms,
the monstrous gale
of the world's sin and pain,
His head drops.
I feel the breeze drying
the salty sweat
on His face,
the salty tears
on mine.
2007-03-12
06:12:48
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