I was born (as I later learned) on Easter
    in earliest spring, at noon,
while snowfall dulled the peals of the churches' bells
    and stalled the trolleys in drifts.
I have been on earth, and in time, forty years,
    my father dead nearly half,
my tears mostly unshed and my eyes dried tight.
 
In blue dawn this Easter, I heard new birds sing;
    then, under hay in its trench,
I found the first asparagus, one thick inch
    of scaley tip, rose and green.
The stalk had grown round a stone, learning its curve;
    that obstruction left behind,
the tip was still crooked. The curve was its own.
 
Months fit poorly into years; the Church's moon
    waxes and wanes on paper;
Easter was later this year, so I'm fully
    my age, among vegetables
--leeks, asparagus, parsnips--seeking some light,
    or warmth. I walk to the house
through the shadow of the rose bush, drawn in frost.
 
How did the stone get into the trench? How deep
    was it? I didn't know, I
was afraid to disturb the root by digging.
    Should I just let the stone lie?
Should I try to get the stone out of the ground?
    Is the gift of tears useless
now, bitter and late, the past an empty tomb?