Resurrection

Nobody was ever drunk on Easter
So it was a holiday
unusual
not dread.

​

My parents, instead of hiding
their drinking in the garage,
                    as we kids played
                    certain
                    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,
oddly
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.