Good Friday is when you bury your potatoes. The tiny eyes are watching you, wondering when their time will come to vine out and creep.

Dark in the earth, hairy roots claw at loam and pebbles. Tiny orbs bright as gems
pulse along hidden wires. Resurrection comes later, the Easter egg hunt.

If I buried a pot of gold in every place I'd ever been happy I'd be out of gold, so I plant
potatoes instead. If I run out of potatoes I could plant pieces of lampposts or better yet brandy.

In my brandy garden I shall lounge among the potatoes, coins upon my eyes, calling for the legends of my
works and days to be read all in dactyls, calling for laurel leaves and palm branches.

No matter how well we learn the art of growing our seeds and tubers, multiplying our coins and yeasts,
we have not really learned the art of resurrection. When we plant a body in the earth it always stays dead.

Maybe at night we wake listening for the scratch of long nails against granite, the ringing of little bells.
Maybe we see eyes opening in the darkness, and close ours. Maybe resurrection is not the happiness we
were looking for.

What we wanted was to set the sharp spade into the rot of time and turn it back, turn it green side up,
All the eyes at peace and all the gold still glittering.