The resurrection was a bust this year:
dirty weather, sneak-thief wind, dogwoods stripped
of leaf, the daylight stretched like soiled silk.
So she put by her white shoes and sheer skirt,
her pastel blouse and breezy reveries,
to wrap herself in lamb’s wool, then stood 
inside the open door and looked down
the frost-slicked streets she would have to drive
to hear again how the observant woman
kept death’s offices, but found the tomb-rock
rolled aside; and how the death den kept
no scent of death, nothing but dank air
and gore-stained grave clothes, strewn—
her vials and verses, useless; how she told
then showed the baffled men; how they looked
and left her there, alone.  And how she wept 
until her name was called, and so set forth.