(Easter Morning Rain)
by Dale Smith

EASTER MORNING. RAIN. Coffee. Eggs. Dark green light, and a rhythmic pitter-patter pops through the walls. Haul a bucket of mush out to the compost. Watch it drip in the drizzle. Stomp feet. Wet earth. Neck and shoulders ache. There’s a stack of eggs and heathen bunnies ready for toddler ingestion. Soon the house will fill with folks. What a party it will be, with good wine too. Some days you see through things like lucid dreaming. Take those steps. Embrace your earthly babe, the little fish. The waters pour forth, suffused with liquid silver going black—a mineral effluvium. Wash out the air, make us new. Dear Nothing. Dear Dead Wreck. Dear Angels of the Garden. There’s new growth on pecan branches. A timer goes off—toast. Jasmine blossoms begin to open, white and fragrant. The first full moon of spring marks the Christian ritual. The liturgical color for the holiday was white—sign of joy, light and purity. Today men in body armor assault targets selected throughout the Tigris-Euphrates river basin. History has a shape inwardly seen. Words pass out of use as faith decays. Ostern. Eostur-monath. Mensis paschalis, “when,” said Bede, “the old festival was observed with the gladness of a new solemnity.” Stand on the edge of a great vacancy. Joachim of Floris could not foresee the error of this spirit age. Relations narrow to the limited perspective of the yard. Plastic shells glisten with a fine layer of mist. Slugs wet on the steps.


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