Each April
as the sun warms and dries the damp
Easter taps my shoulder.
I am not ready
for the Alleluias
lillies
lambs
I know Good Friday well --
the black veil,
the cross,
silence
April’s new light
stuns,
terrifies,
and I am
disoriented,
unsure
which way to travel
yet
in the photo held with a magnet
to my refrigerator door
I’m smiling,
wearing the bonnet
with pink and lavender blossoms
above black netting
Each April it’s something
of a miracle --
somehow the eyes adjust,
the pulse quickens,
the feet step
first one, then the other, and,
when all is sung and done,
something primeval in me
says yes.
