A Nose for the Surface
She shows me little hills
Moles made in her flower beds.
How precise, how plausible the work
These underground architects undertake—
They have a nose for where the surface lies.
Jesus, turning aside death,
Moving, tunneling
Three days under death’s surveillance.
Parting Sheol’s dirt and stones
Rising in an Easter gardeners’
Smudged garb.
Like Thomas, the sainted doubter,
She bends over scarred ground
Scanning for hints of new life
Among torn up roots
In earthen tombs.

—Ken Beidler