by Christine Tran

He prayed for our joy to be complete,
Not comfort or earthly pleasure.
Being sentenced to His death,
Joy, the last utterance under His breath.

When happiness wilts under the summer sun
And bliss is buried below snow trenches,
Joy is the stubborn weed
Wedged between cracked concrete.

It heeds no circumstance
And needs only the dirt below.
When trampled underfoot,
It quietly resurrects.

It is the dandelion, white clover,
And wild violet in your garden—
Resisting winter rude and angry tread
To return when all else is dead.

Christine Tran is a civil rights paralegal and graduate student at DePaul University in Chicago, IL. She is the author of Birdsongs and Spring, Too, Returns. Her work has also been published in The Chicago Sun-Times.