Resurrection

The first alleluias after the Friday
must have been subdued:
clear, true,
but with the ingenuous delicacy
of surprise and startled eyes,
gathering to an assurance
not yet quite rested.
This light bears the bruises of darkness,
tender at its heart,
not from any defect of birth
but intrinsic to its triumph,
forever aware not only of the paradoxes of the one
and the seized pain of the few,
who, losing him, found him,
but of the treacherous mediocrity
of the many.
This life uses the shards of death
to assert its green,
quickening from black earth
and deeply bedded fragments,
acknowledging with deference but no fear,
of necessity syncretic,
its opposite as ally.