|Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Easter Morning: April 1, 2018
I awake to the sound of my ten-year-old son
hunting eggs, though he no longer believes
in Easter Bunnies or resurrection.
The crocuses bloomed but two days ago:
one patch pure purple, another clutch of four
white as snow with purpled veins.
The dyed eggs encircle the dead pond:
eleven koi and six bullfrogs floating
when the ice melted, suffocated
in water starved of oxygen. Unresurrected,
they are cast into the woods to decompose
and rise again as vegetation in three days.
We walk our trails—it's almost warm today—
looking up at bare branches, finding
the first forethoughts of leaves, tightly bound.
We return home affirming that Spring has arrived,
pull the ticks off our skin and don't believe
that seven inches of snow will fall in the night.