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Nobody was ever drunk on Easter
So it was a holiday
not dread.
My parents, instead of hiding
their drinking in the garage,
                    as we kids played
                    of the carnage to come
took us to the woods on Easter
to gather moss
later the bed
for Easter eggs
first wrapped in leaves,
coffee grounds, vibrant strips of colored       cloth,
bound in burlap, tied with string,
boiled, then unwrapped,
earth-colored spheres
like stones, like brown shades of bark,
streaks of orange, blue, red
like the sun, the river, a cardinal's feather.
ln the woods,
we lifted damp moss
with care
soft, muddy
from the forest floor
covered with the moldy
dead leaves
that mulch life,
carry a fertile scent
sweet loam
the promise,
a resurrection we all hoped
for our parents
but guaranteed only
by the fallen tree
the detritus of fur from creatures
all turning, sinking into soil
sprouting a cacophony of mushrooms
then tender violets, later a bud on a               branch.

published in Snapdragon Journal, Spring 2020

Anda Peterson has been an instructor of writing and coordinator of programs for at-risk youth over the past thirty years. Her poetry has been published in a variety of poetry journals and anthologies. 

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