Sometimes green is a miracle.
Specifically, I am talking about a green that is only seen once a year.
The first flush of the earth's waking.
The meadow is so bright and rich in green
It blinds just as the frogs hidden in its mantle deafen, filling every inch of space to the brim.
I look down at this incomprehensible carpet in sheer dumbfounded awe.
And I see for the first time that the emerald on which I have trod is not mere grass as I had imagined
But trout lilies.
Thousands upon thousands of trout lilies, their speckled scabbards bustling in the glade.
I am standing in a swarm of trout lilies.
I look about me for some avenue of escape, endeavoring to do as little damage as possible in my exit.
But it is no use. My only way out is to trample.
Yet before I let my remorseful mind sink into this thought, I notice:
It is early, the lilies are not in their full glory, but a few early risers it seems have peeked up, and I,
Being curious and seeing how leaving the glade untrammeled is a foregone conclusion, I squat and press my face to the ground
My eyes level with the tiny silver-white nod.
A bee lands on the upper lip of the flower. The belle is so coy that as to make her crawl up and under the flower to reach her prize.
But the bee hungrily, greedily obliges, gripping stamen and pistil like a lover, gyrating and churning her abdomen in a storm.
She leaves, soaked in pollen and drunk on nectar, into the sunlight and dizzying green.
And I have no other recourse but to throw up my hands and proclaim the reality of resurrection.