Resurrection Poem by Bert Bell

sometimes, if I stand here long
enough in the monsoon
of alphabet rain, my muse for whom I wait

appears, though rarely at my beck
and never at my call—
and when he does, or she— it's hard to know

with chameleons, the inkwell in my chest begins
to warm and my hand transforms
into a quill— the hairs stand up on the back

of my eyes revealing new glimpses
of an old life— memories
come into focus and vanish in a cloud

of hope that tomorrow will not be wasted
like so many yesterdays—
I begin to scribe my prayer of gratitude

to my God who has never abandoned
me, as I have him— my Saviour
who has never let me be snatched

from his hand, and who fully paid
for all my transgressions
with his blood long before I entered this world.