It comes in myriad little ways
like each plant’s response to spring,
to summer, tendrils and leaves reaching out,
such a multiplicity of enlargement
that my field is overcome with green
So many individual gleams
from one sun. Look up, they say,
that is not you, the one that sits in misery.
You are up here, in elemental joy,
pure purpose, and the naturalness
of things being what they are,
perfect in that incomparable
(and uncompared) unfoldment.
Look up. She is not here. She is risen.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 24, 2016
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