Peter's boat curves to a point
The inside is hollow.
Tiny shells roll to and fro
on the silt bottom of the lake.
Peter imagines skimming the floor
sifting, trying to find Jesus,
clutch his hand to pull him back.
Sand, the boundary for blue-grey, dark waters,
shifts endlessly, reminding Peter
that just two days ago he said three times,
"I never knew Him!"
He used to notice tumbled rocks on shore
harboring windblown seeds,
cumulous clouds promising rain.
Now he doesn't see a thing,
rubs his sour knotted fishing net
between calloused fingers,
wishes he had been stronger.
How can he know in this dark time
that a few days from now,
a familiar figure will rise
from the sun-bleached shore,
hold out his hand,
and call to him across salty waves,
schools of fish flashing,
nets suddenly full.
Peter will say three times,
"Yes Lord, you know I love you!"
Lift his head at the slow exhale of spring,
new life from clefts and cracks of hard places.
"Yes Lord, I love you!"
Sand gently shifts,
waves are silent.
Morning moves slowly.
A fisherman weeps.