March 1

A Night Poem (For Easter) by Andrew Peterson

I lie in bed these sweet few days
When the windows yet are open
And the weather yet is fine,
And love to hear the dead of night
Announce its living presence
With hoot and croak and creeping vine.

I love the knowledge that for years
As I have waited on the bench
Beneath the juniper tree,
And paid such close attention,
There is an owl I’ve never seen
An owl, I know, who watches me.

I love the sound of secret things,
I love to hear their nearness,
And to feel their wildness, too.
(Three days ago we sowed the seeds
And every hour I check the dirt
For seedlings pushing through.)

I lie in bed awake, alert,
Aware of the God of the Garden.
I sense in the seed a promise,
An unfolding resurrection
In the furrowed row, in soil
And root, in husk and humus.

I sense an ancient heart alive
Who haunts these moonlit acres,
Blessing, bringing life from death,
Dawn from darkness, song from sorrow.
The night owl swoops, the zephyr sighs;
I hear within the tomb: a breath.