Living Tree Poetry

Practice resurrection with me.

I do.
Every time I watch my children sleep,
and breathe.

Every time the day rises.
Every time that the moon ascends,
to prove wonders never cease.

I practice resurrection
with the bird’s dawn chorus.
There’s always a note that carries heavenwards.

And in my daughter’s hair,
such gold that only angels
could spin.

Yes, resurrection is practiced
in everything that sheds,
and then returns.

Seeds, leaves, hair strands,
trees we’ve pruned
to then surprise us in their vigour.

Voices that were silenced
to a whisper,
and regained their strength.

Who said resurrection
has to be seen in the flesh to be proven real,
has not felt the earth turn in the dark,

or watched the morning star
form from nothing
as it caught the light.

Hope is the banner
that is raised
each time resurrection is believed.

One day we will wake
up to see,
what it is we practice for.

Restoration,
a guarantee for those
whose hope is in renewal.

Who trust that the return of spring,
and the grave’s open tomb signifies something,
to one day be revealed in full.

Yes, practice resurrection with me.
It’s the only way to live,
and die.

In the closing and the opening of our lids,
our eyes now see with clarity,
all that the dark tried to hide.

Ana Lisa de Jong
February 2018

Image: My own