Didymus: An Easter poem for the Doubting Thomas in us all

Having grown accustomed to my garden’s
entropy, its law of diminishing
returns, I saw no reason why this morning
should be any different, less barren.
For years this corner had yielded nothing
save failed rhubarb, withered silverbeet.
This cycle of death, I reasoned, should repeat
until soil should die and sun should shrink.
My friends reported miracles; I smiled
in vain solidarity – at least tried.
Only I, it seemed, lacked faith. Or was it guile?
What’s faith when everything you touched has died?
Yet even I know what today I saw:
Easter garden singing with another law.