Resurrection

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The purple berries of Trilliums

would be most welcome in 

this ghostly gray cold.

Salt marsh dreams of rose mallows:

hairy stems gaily brushing your legs

in their scarlet way

coddle the frozen senses back to life.

Blue-eyed grass, star-like, borne atop

slender stems in moist meadows speaks

of open spaces we must seek

lest we leave our souls hibernate 

in winter.

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Don't disdain the weak, reclining

stems of the common chickweed

whose flesh transforms

into a feast for songbirds.

Who would announce The Return

if chickweeds didn't make the sacrifice?

Along shaded roadsides and in rich woods,

keep eyes open for the Bloodroot; it knows

about the dark: clear white petals fold

in evening as even now,

on the verge of light, our hearts

are tight yet ready to yield.

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Like the arbutus, scarce from careless picking,

hope appears before these bitter winds

get the better of us. Tough creepers,

evergreen leaves, urgently pollinated

by ravenous bees -- sting as sweet as wing's caress --

their spicy fragrance wafts free early enough

to wake the sleepers from winter's grave,

to live another day and taste in spring

(yes, it will come)

the violet-blue tonic of Fringed Gentian,

its vase-like self so difficult to cultivate,

so worth the wait.

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Arlene Gay Levine

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First published in Free Spirit Magazine

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