Lent

The improbable baby hairs

Of the first spring leaves fringe the arch of the hill,

Feathering the sky with a green so calm

And tender, my eyes fill. As always,

Resurrection feels most unlikely

When most needed.

But unfurling my anxious hands

For a moment on the earth, pressing

With the pads of my fingers, I find

A pulse firm as a promise

Of an inhale and an exhale, pure and fragrant

On some future birdsung morning.

Already, the mockingbird knows only 

The essential and eternal news

And proclaims it over all notifications

From the topmost swelling dogwood branch.