Maybe this is what Christ meant

Not the triumph
of armies or thunder
but this

a bog
still remembering winter
its dark waters loosened
only now
from death’s hard seal

And there
without witness
without announcement
one flower rises

So small
the world could miss it entirely

Yet beauty does not define itself
in size

It simply blooms

And somehow
the fragile thing
fills the whole lens
until marsh and mud
cold and ruin
become only a shadow
behind living color

Perhaps resurrection
has always entered quietly

One impossible blossom
opening
where death still lingers
teaching the earth again
how to breathe