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A Night Poem (for Easter)

I lie in bed these sweet few days When the windows yet are open And the weather yet is fine, And love to hear the dead of night Announce its living presence With hoot and croak and creeping vine.

I love the knowledge that for years As I have waited on the bench Beneath the juniper tree, And paid such close attention, There is an owl I’ve never seen An owl, I know, who watches me.

I love the sound of secret things, I love to hear their nearness, And to feel their wildness, too. (Three days ago we sowed the seeds And every hour I check the dirt For seedlings pushing through.)

I lie in bed awake, alert, Aware of the God of the Garden. I sense in the seed a promise, An unfolding resurrection In the furrowed row, in soil And root, in husk and humus.

I sense an ancient heart alive Who haunts these moonlit acres, Blessing, bringing life from death, Dawn from darkness, song from sorrow. The night owl swoops, the zephyr sighs; I hear within the tomb: a breath.

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