Resurrection

[bruorton]

Last night I dreamed I was witness
to an exhibition of magic. True magic,
where a dead twig came back to life.
There were other demonstrations
too: a wooden dowel was turned
to chrome, by dipping it in a liquid;
when it dried, it rang when tapped
like a tuning fork. A mug of water
was turned to boiling milk –
an exothermic sorcery? –
which, when it cooled, could be
drunk. But I only had eyes for
the resurrection. I could not
have cared less about the incantation
spoken by the magician before he
bit down to rip the twig from its
dead branch with his teeth. Only how
the new leaves, tiny and hesitant,
pushed out from each old leaf scar.
Only the way its crackled skin
turned smooth, and lustrous.
The way the terminal bud grew
once more ruddy with purpose,
straining to find a way forward.