By dying he destroyed our death and by rising he restored our life.
Once we ran like spring rains
pushing through stones
in the creek out back,
our small selves stretching
through the rye's greening
gloss and March
shoving the long lines of trees
still standing in their winter:
racing my brother against the even gravity, the borders of each other,
together against cloud shadows'
advance and passing
into the pastured
through our childhood
game and moment's brume.