Being Wise Nine Easter Sunday, April 4, 2021
Resurrection! In a cold house.
Resurrection ferns by the Haw River.
I am almost eighty-four and still
alive. The frost killed the hydrangea’s
new leaves, but the daylily leaves
are erect as usual. Did the peach
blossoms survive? I can’t tell through
the kitchen window. The hens are
hunkered down, their feathers
fluffed for warmth. A cold sun
brightens behind the curtains.
The poem begins before I’m fully
awake. I put on my jacket and
spread a blanket over my legs
and feet. Easter morning. I
celebrate with a new poem
while the Earth’s resurrection
continues unabated. Two lamps
in a dark house. One human
being awake and alive. No
telling how much longer I
have to inhabit this body, be
this person, bundle myself up
in wool and my favorite
blanket, drink hot tea, and be
grateful for another day of
life and love.
.
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