(Kim, Lia, (I think my friend) Arlene, and Karen with out Easter hats on)
A spring breeze on Maundy Thursday
Then the holy palm frond on Sunday
Which I hold with wonder until
We arrive home for lunch. I bring the
Now brownish dry frond up to my bedroom
With my children’s bible, whose pages are
Never worn enough to make me feel holy.
Then another, or is it the next, Sunday
Easter hats that look so very very lovely
When lying on our beds next to our
Easter dresses, which our mother sewed
On a machine taken out of her bedroom
Cupboard to sew wonder and beauty for
The procession down the church aisle
To a pew in the front, though never the first.
How the church smells of everything
Old and new. Mothballs wafting through
the incandescence and washed souls.
Halleluiah, it is the altar boys’ day-to-shine
They start out so bright, swishing the incense
Down on knees, heads bowed, straight backed.
Yet, like our Easter hats that begin to pinch horribly,
No matter how the boys try, the priest loses his
Patience and sends them withering looks
Sometimes, thrillingly, he swats one across
Their head when he thinks no one is watching.
The poem above is missing the whole point of Easter. Which is, of course, the Easter Egg Hunt. Pat used to make an Easter Egg Hunt that all children in the neighborhood were allowed to participate in.
What I love about the picture above is, first, we are all wearing petticoats under our dresses. Secondly, take close notice our homemade Easter baskets. You can see that they are actually paper lunch bags with some coloured construction paper taped around them and an air balloon hanging from the side.
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