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*