Maundy Thursday Poem by Tom Harding

You let go of mystery,
now without thinking about it
you know ghosts don't exist
and whatever else,
you suppose,
that might bring someone
back from the dead.
Your most enlightened philosophies
turn out the lights
on a dark afternoon
in an empty kitchen
where the shadow of trees
flail like the outstretched
arms of a martyr or saint,
while you sit in a chair
by an open window
contemplating the notion
of the impossible
while the book in your lap
quietly filling with rain.