Grace and Peace to you.
Enough of Easter lilies,
trumpets and choirs and angels
and their improbable wings
folded tight in the tomb.
Let me find glory in a single bird
working a bare branch,
your breath that wakens me,
in brown grass turning slowly green,
as grey days and banal tasks,
as a high pressure front
of chores and deadlines
pushes the warm, moist air of heaven
out of our awareness.
The sun will rise beyond our ken,
unless attentiveness breaks through.
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