Easter - The Meaning of It

by

Joris John Heise

Yes, spring does not bamboozle us;
Its verdure tells the truth, though gauzily,
Though sometimes winter gusts back strong
With depressingly gray sullennesses.

But spring’s finale will blush to full summer
When foliage, grown green as crayolas—
And that thick, that waxy, too—
Abuts each horizon that we hold and use.

For green IS God's ego, after all,
His hopeful, self-assured envelopment,
That delicate variety of leaves on spring’s loom,
Creating changes everlastingly, like God.

Each spring we walk on carpets of phlox,
Observe small, yellow violets surprising us;
They all talk a quiet rumble-silence, like the thrust
Of seedlings up through thick, clay clods,

And we all face that feeling-common, like the
Communal infinity of small flower-faces
That forest mother keeps on birthing—
(And it feels fine to see wee, weak stems).

But it's also time to be a spring blossom, too,
Define one's good through a green "I AM"
Of history that we—each I—shape of cycles
Into summers God and we create again.

These billion births of lives of every size
Are all re-births from small Good Friday graves;
They form towards independent, joy-thick times
Of peace, perfume and sharing fruit-futures.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at In five thousand years from now
by: Francis Duggan
from: Wonthaggi, Victoria, Australia

To visit all of Joris John Heise's poems, click HERE

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