The Resurrection

A poem about rising again...

The Resurrection

We were told
the story belonged to one.

One body rising.
One miracle.
One holy exception.

But step outside
and look closely.
The earth does not agree.

All around you,
what was buried
is breathing again.

Branches once brittle
now soften with green.
Flowers bloom again
From what was dormant.

Nothing argues for resurrection,
it simply happens.

Again.
And again.
And again.

What if this day
was never meant
to be only about one man
rising long ago,
but about the pattern
woven into everything?

The quiet promise
that what falls apart
is not the end.
That what goes dark
is not gone.

That what feels dead
may only be
waiting.

Waiting
for its natural rhythm
to revive the Life
that already lives through it.

Beloved—
you are not outside
this rhythm.

The places in you
that have withered,
that have closed,
that have forgotten
how to hope,
they are not finished.

They are in season.
Resurrection
is not rare.

It is not reserved
for the chosen.
It is the way of things.

The way of the earth.
The way of the soul.
So do not be afraid
of your winters.

Do not rush
your falling apart.

There is something in you
that knows how
to rise.

Not once.
But as many times
as it takes
to become fully alive.

Raudri (Maria Rippo)