Dogwood

by Dee Wade

Dogwood buds sit up
to give notice of themselves
on spreading tips of lacy twigs
swollen with the serum of spring
until they burst into flotillas of flowers
suspended over softening earth
leafless, as from invisible wires,
white swatches bobbing in gray woods,
and we sniff surprise, caught short:

oh; it’s happening again
and we almost missed it.

The dogwood tree,
despite legends told children,
has nothing to do with Good Friday,
and its annual awakening has
even less to do with Easter Sunday
the vernal turn entirely too regular,
the metaphor much too narrow
to contain the wide open miracle
dawn tripping women witnessed.

But the One who creates all
is the same One who redeems all,
and so it satisfies completely to say
that in this latitude at least,
where Dogwoods bloom,
happy coincidences converge
whenever the words he is risen
are attended with such eye-popping
and breath-stopping beauty.