EASTER SUNDAY
I feel as though I’ve written
about Easter many times
but never managed to navigate
to a place of reverence,
a point at which I see
the god everyone else sees.
This morning I helped my sons
gather plastic eggs from the lawn,
the hyper pinks and yellows popping
like the chrysanthemums not yet bloomed
in the garden. They crowed with delight
finding chocolate coins inside,
fool’s gold good enough for their fingers
and faces. The overcast sky
did not speak of joy.
There is so much on this earth
that is senseless and cold, colder
than a sky with no sun
or the click of a trigger
and the hand that carries it.
I watch the world–I watch myself–
fail and fail again, lost to ourselves
and clinging to our fool’s gold,
the falsest of idols, the cruelest steel.
But this Sunday morning
there were giggles and sweet steam breath,
baskets to fill with plastic trinkets
and chocolate. There were hands
sifting through damp morning grass,
lifting their treasures high
into the light
to see them clearly.
Issa M. Lewis 
❤
LikeLike