| 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.
|
(Easter Morning Rain)
