Resurrection (an Easter poem)
The first Sunday
after the first full moon
after the first equinox of the year,
rise early and lean outside
in the spiced air, listen to bells ringing.
Morning bells
bells of far churches
chuckling their delight for the advent of another spring
in a world that has dawned.
Easter
and already the snows have grown weary
they drop their coats
and troop back into the darkness.
Already the gale, barking wind
discards his piercing shrillness
and his iciness
he bounds forward on us warm and naked.
Already the distant sun, long aloof
forgets herself
wanders our way, smiling broadly.
Already the crocuses and daffodils
the jonquils, the dogwoods, the wisteria, even the white iris
alone in the field by my house
cast off their shyness, vulnerably
expose themselves before the world
unprotected and beautiful.
And it is spring. It is spring.
I look beyond the empty lot, out past
steeples that stand like toys
on the far street, suddenly
I see earth supple before me like a gardener
like a mother suckling rich seed-mouths
and they spring up.
They spring up, they spring up
in eudicotyledon splendor of living
resurrected in body once again.
