Stuffed animals in the damp, evangelical grass,
dying daffodils and lilies, an unassembled kite
speak of love’s promise, which does not stop.
Unable to stay, the assembled depart
to stuff themselves with promised cold cuts,
kite checks to Christ, and dream of flight.
But all such dreams are checked, stall,
fall to earth. We nose forward, unable to stop
the cut from bleeding or get the dark to part.
This earthen child doubtless won’t take root.
Even the reasonable flowers for all their cold
beauty wilt, glum with their own conundrums.
The pink and yellow animals grow sodden
as day sinks beneath its weight of disbelief.
Somewhere old gone Christ knows why.
Puzzled, one might pray, root for lovely
answers, find some pink aunt or jaundiced uncle
to rehearse what green Easter is about.
Elsewhere, damp eyes cry uncle, beautiful
speech blossoms. This child within its hearse
of dirt knows neither dark nor doubt.