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REVIVAL I’d gotten used to the goldenrod rattling its empty cup, the bony maples, the prostrate garden, the wind bothering the oak for one last brown indulgence of leaves. Now the yard’s changed its hair shirt to velveteen, and dogwoods tire quickly of their legend, tire of blood-tipped crosses they have to bear, heavier than the redbud’s, old Judas tree redeemed in pink. There’s rejoicing among the violets when the backslid earth comes home to the green gospel. I want to lie down and let them lay their hands on me; I want to take April as my personal savior. Consider the tulips, washed in the blood, the forget-me-nots blue-eyeing heaven, the privet, the briar, the prodigal weed ready to be born again, and again.  ...

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