A Poem to Read

Resurrection

by Nora B. Peevy

When the dark blooms wither on the vine,
I yank them from my gut and claim them as mine.

Black petals weeping red,
I wear my new thorny wreath,
though it pierces my forehead.

Clad in a gown of maiden white,
down the winding path to the river I walk at midnight.

I lay my body down on a bed of sweet lavender and rosemary,
one herb to banish and one herb to heal,
and let the tiny Tree Men, all bundles of sticks and leaves,
twist fairy knots in my hair as beside me they kneel.

I watch the pixies dance like thistle down under the moon's embrace.
And for a moment, I breathe in perfect grace.