His brothers said to him, “Leave here and go to Judea, that your disciples may see the works you are doing. For no man works in secret if he seeks to be known openly….” [But] Jesus said to them, “My time has not yet come.” —John 7:3–4, 6
Beneath the refuse of a neglected garden—
leaf litter, sweet gum balls, pine cones, squirrel shit—
the bulb of a crocus, wrapped in paper
like a mislaid gift.
The seeping warmth
calls forth a shoot. It works its patient ways
through seasons past, undoing burial, remembering
Yet even then remains unseen,
unnoticed ’til unfurled in white.