And drive past the stone church to the water
In March or April when the river rushes
Around the rocks where black turtles sun.
They hear with their bones, and politely so.
As you read the Easter story, listen
To what the waters in your heart mutter
About the long years of loneliness
Where you withdrew under cold river ice.
Check your compass cracked when liars climbing
Over your betrayal-benumbed back pushed off.
You know exactly how long it has been
Since it felt wise to breathe.
Sapphire-blue butterflies dance around you.
The pollen of primavera stings
Your eyes. Spring is a possibility
If the harrowing of Hades is past.
Then listen with your warming bones beyond
The sound of sour chokecherries budding
And the poisoned sepals of the staggerbush.
As unbidden tears arise, a space appears.
Will your bones hear the wild God
Who offers you communion?