The boxwoods planted in the park spelled LIVE. I never noticed it until they died. Before, the entwined green had smudged the word unreadable. And when they take their own advice again—come spring, come Easter—no one will know a word is buried in the leaves. I love the way that Mary thought her resurrected Lord a gardener. It wasn’t just the broad-brimmed hat and muddy robe that fooled her: He was that changed. He looks across the unturned field, the riot of unscythed grass, the smattering of wildflowers. Before he can stop himself, he’s on his knees. He roots up stubborn weeds, pinches the suckers, deciding order here—what lives, what dies, and how. But it goes deeper even than that. His hands burn and his bare feet smolder. He longs to lie down inside the long, dew-moist furrows and press his pierced side and his broken forehead into the dirt. But he’s already done it— passed through one death and out the other side. He laughs. He kicks his bright spade in the earth and turns it over. Spring flashes by, then harvest. Beneath his feet, seeds dance into the air. They rise, and he, not noticing, ascends on midair steppingstones of dandelion, of milkweed, thistle, cattail, and goldenrod.
Andrew Hudgins is Humanities Distinguished Professor in English at The Ohio State University. This poem first appeared in The Never-Ending (Houghton-Mifflin, 1991). Reprinted with permission of the author.
