“Oh, God, no”—the half-prayer
burst out of me when I saw the
severely pruned wisteria over

the driveway trellis. I’d asked
Miguel, the efficient garden god,
to take the tangled limbs in hand,

and boy, did he. It was January,
and it occurred to me then that
the now-stubby sticks could not

possibly flower before leafing
in March. It’s an old plant anyway,
putting out fewer blossoms every

year, but I can’t bear to think about
replacing it. Besides, it produces
offspring that pop up on both

sides of the driveway that has me
pulling them out as they sprout.
But I’ve let a couple take root,

get tall, and provided a tower for
one to climb and a fence for another.
I did not hear God or her earthly

representatives say, “Oh, ye of little faith,”
but somehow, those sweet purple clusters
emerged in March, right on time,

as wee clumps of green sprouted
around them. The wisteria never lasts
long—maybe a week, ten days,

if I’m lucky. But when it makes its annual
appearance, I make sure that I stand
in the driveway daily to admire all that

lavender loveliness, tell those short-lived
beauties how gorgeous they are,
reminding myself of the possibility,

even the likelihood, of resurrection,
even in our short-sightedness,
our bumbling humanness.