It
was a bitter and blustery day in McHenry County yesterday,
much like one more than 20 years ago when I was walking to the train station
to get to work in the next town the line early one cold equinox
morning when I was struck with this which was included in my 2004 Skinner House
collection We Build Temples in the Heart.
Resurrection
From that frigid morning
when the fog of humanity
hangs palpable before our faces
and that fat red sun pops
before our eyes at the far end of
the reaching blacktop,
then, when from the highest,
barest twig the cardinal sings
his whistle in the graveyard,
our hearts know
resurrection and murmur—
Yes, Yes.
We are a cold people in a cold
land,
and every creeping inch
of yellow willow hair,
every footprint
in newly giving earth,
every ratchet tap of woodpecker
on lifeless wood
resonates with resurrection and
nods recollection.
It is no wonder that in hot lands,
perpetual in green,
moist and ever fertile,
the natives snickered at tales
of a hanging god,
turned on naked heels,
and ran to sensible deities
who would not abandon them
only to hound them on return
with foolish promises.
But here, at turning time,
our arctic hearts surrender
to the sureness of the resurrection
that surrounds us,
and in the echo of this miracle
understand redemption too,
in the merciful
thaw
of our glacial
souls.
—Patrick Murfin
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