by Jeff Burt
If Jesus had risen on Easter in my own backyard I would have put the dog inside to stop her from sniffing his shroud and made him a cup of the good coffee instead of the boring decaf I drink, and maybe offered him the hammock but he’d want to sit on the deck and we’d just be silent, no talk, watching the dogwood bloom so white it hurts, and wisteria of a neighbor that got away and now entwines an oak over sixty feet tall, those purple wreaths like a floral veil over the green canopy of the forest, and the plums already with hard green fruit on the branches that squirrel’s touch but do not pick. We’d sit and just watch as the sun comes over redwoods and firs and the blooming madrones and softens the lavender that bees enjoin. Maybe I wouldn’t know who he was, but I’d offer him more coffee just the same, and with him just sitting there, silent, looking, he’d know, like I, he was not only saved for the next world but this one as well.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He has contributed to Heartwood, Williwaw Journal, Red Wolf Journal, and Clerestory. He won the Cold Mountain Review 2017 Poetry Prize. His work can be found at www.jeff-burt.com.