Holy Saturday (A Poem)

I love this day
of silent waiting
when fasting is over,
but feasting not begun,
when pain is past,
but flesh not quickened.
This is where we live,

this human place,
waiting before the cave
in the tarnished garden
where it all began
and ended
to begin anew,
we hope,
forever.
...
Nobody can be sure
what will happen next.

(From a poem by Bonnie Thurston, found in To Pause at the Threshold, p. 79)