On Easter Sunday I rose
remembering how he said
the way was always opening up
when we walked within it.

And so I put on the dress
I never wore before and
opened up my heart, risking
everything as I am prone to do.

My heart sang at first to see
they would share the text
I treasured and tell the world
how he met her outside the tomb.

But again they fail to see the point,
reading a failure of faith where
love changed everything, and
succeeding in burying her again.

Word by word, the female pastor
minces her just like they backed her
up against a wall, forcing her into a corner
and sealing her in the grave.

Proclaiming her glass half empty when
indeed her heart was the only one so full
it might well still explode into a million
fertile fragments, seeds through time.

Peter and John becoming the heros,
the ones who saw things rightly,
and she who knew fades quickly, 
brushed aside as a footnote,

Despite these words she wrote,
and so many stories never told.
Like a lion roaring in my chest
I felt him breaking free in me.