by Earl J. Wilcox
She could have washed his long robes
preparing them for his next excursion
into the hills, the Jewish temples, near
caves and grape vineyards where he preached.
She could have repaired his sandals
the ones he must have worn out many times
from walking and preaching, his favorite
methods of spreading his Gospel. She could
have kept the home fires burning during
the many long nights, days, and years
while her husband was gone from their humble
dwelling place most of his life. She might have
wept with her mother-in-law on a craggy hill
called Golgotha where he was crucified.
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.
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