Lazarus

by Gary Whitehead

The rivers rise and touch the living banks,

the grackles garner berries from the bush.

A stone is pushed by the hands of currents,

and roots are sent to wander through the crush

of ice and ages, to hold and give thanks

again to the mountain and its torrents.

Only those things that have suffered and died

can know the light that comes after darkness

as more than physical, a spectrum truth

divides in the universe, nothing less

than love itself. Even rivers that ride

over ice, ever downward, have their faith.

Life is a possum caught in headlight glare,

and death is what we see by the roadside

in the morning sun. What grows later out

of the church of bones and spreads itself wide

and deep is fed by the song that's sung there

and the arms flung open to catch the light.