Despite This Being Easter Morning

The world remains all dog-brown mud and drifts
of struggling grass. The sun tries to vanish in the stream.
No Easter hat or matching pocketbook. No sliding back
into the shine of wooden pew. No holy statues or spirits
of middle-age women dressed in salt and sanctity. Still,
this morning is buckshot with possibility, shrieks of small
birds rending air. No Easter basket. No scent of chocolate
and marshmallows. No cellophane grass. Only
a pause in the earth’s yawning. A yapping sky.
New budding twists of trust, speckled & green.