First Steps

Fish scales, Galilean glare
Soft feet, unused to walking
And the saline smell of a former life
Like their nets, left, discarded
And a pile of unused nails
A length of half-sawn cedar
The aroma lingering still

One, binding a broken oar, another
Hands black with caulk, and one
Brushing splinters and sawdust away
Mothers’ and fathers’ witness
A carpenter capturing sons
In his kingdom call, their sons,
Taking their first steps

And us? What did we discard,
Our feet now shod with
The gospel of peace?
The stripping began as the
Carpenter, saw and plane
In hand, fashioned us
With dove-tail joints to pilgrims

Walking, parable upon parable
Signs beyond sermons, the blind
Now seeing, seeing nothing
As the Son of Man,
Works his way to the place
Of his penultimate step, everything
Laid down, stripped, discarded

And then? Then
Sore feet planted
On the pressed soil and rock
Of a garden tomb before dawn,
He takes his first new steps,
One word forming in his eyes,
Mary! And, later, your name