Easter Mass

In the garden, cheerful daffodils lean

into an easy breeze and wild daisies

sway back-and-forth like Saturday sinners

finding Sunday grace in polished oak pews.

A chorus of birdsong evokes church hymns.

After death: resurrection. Blades of grass

birthed from a pregnant earth seek light. Brave buds

on proud trees rise to the challenge of new

life, slowly stretching toward ripe sunshine,

and a sky full of possibility.

Early-morning jays peck at worms in dirt,

searching for the prize. Instead they retrieve

traces of a buried childhood: grass-stained

knees, grape jellybeans, fresh white lilies, pink

pearl rosary beads. My small hand in yours.

I don’t go to Easter Mass anymore.

God, the Holy Ghost, knows where to find me.

In the garden, a choir of sparrows praise

the risen sun. A mother robin adds

her song. Communion is everywhere.

(For Nana, who taught me to call the birds and flowers by name.)

*This poem first appeared on Living the Dream blog*

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