with an old fashioned foot washing.
I forgot we used to be Brethren--
The three of us on the couch,
feet hanging over the paisley,
while you kneel with the laundry tub.
The kids are as happy as waiting for
the teacup ride at Disney Land.
Like little sponges they've absorbed it,
from us, calling out at each egg they find.
Ninety-three exclamations of pure joy
in one little Easter hunt on Campbell street.
This may be the first year I dunk the eggs
in their color without caring--
An egg is an egg is an egg is an egg. I'm
tired and my heart is as cold and dry as these
yokes will be waiting in the fridge.
Is there a mayo for hearts? Something to
change my dry, hard boiled soul back
into something Michael Angelo could paint
the Sistine Chapel with? Maybe everything
we ever create will end up censored
by fig leaves too, but some day I know
they will be rubbed out as nonsense,
and underneath will be the work we meant
all along. The naked truth proving we were
never the one reaching out after all.
It was God the whole time.
This year as we lay exhausted in Paradise
let's promise to hold hands, to jump right
into the picture and find our place
in a Divine Comedy where the only way
back is forward, through the last funnel,
and into a new light.
So here is a basket with chocolate eggs and small
fire crackers, so we can blow open
those doors stuck closed for so long.
Peace or pieces-- we'll take at least one.