Easter, 2020

Wake up, young man, and look east:

the crimson-capped clouds call out

the golden-crowned kinglet sings 

a song of protest, of praise.

Take your child to the green ash

press your hands against its scars:

it stands in strength, nonetheless— 

I swear I’ve seen its hands clap.

Follow your wife through the fields

of wild quinine, walk slowly:

the flowers are stained white by

the robes of the Gardener.

Easter is inappropriate

the empty tomb an affront:

the stone rolls further, running 

in shame from its failed sealing.