Stumbling

Easter when
he rose
he couldn’t see
his toes
you know the way
that goes?

Again
he rose
to feel
the ground,
spongy wet
and sucking
at his feet,
slurping sloshing,
sweet.

A marsh.
A cross.
The cattails bent
from heavy snows,
and moss,
and mud.
He rose because
he could.

To cross
a marsh
as if he could
by miracle.
Walking
on the ground,
soaking cold
and marshalling
his breath.
Snapping sinking
death.

He rose
because he rose.
You know the way
that goes.