A Good Word
Press your ear against her breast,
at the exact moment he speaks her name,
plucking the middle, leap-for-joy C string
of her heart.
This other Mary imaging she
met a gardener rather than a savior.
But didn’t she name perfectly his identity?
This enfleshed harvest
that stood before her,
redolent of crushed wheat
and new wine. This “other” Mary,
the only one returning to the immense dark,
who loved him without reserve, and so, would know him forever
more deeply and richly than any scribe.
Isn’t the gardener exactly
who Jesus born to be?
The one who entered death’s wilderness
and mothered it back into Eden?
Isn’t the gardener the savior we are looking for,
Isn’t good soil the fragrance
of salvation?
Aren’t all lips longing to be kissed,
all hearts sensing hope lingering,
on the eternal precipice of spring?
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