Easter Morning

Easter Morning

I could not sleep last night after reading
about what happened to a body
in Ukraine, before that body died.

There’s sickness here too (if not the same.)

But it’s Easter and I get up to tune the computer to boys’ singing
about the resurrection.  

The songs make me weep almost instantly,
as all my dead rise
to greet me. 

I weep both because of my certainty that those one loves
are never lost, and because of my longing for
that certainty,

weep too for the suffering, and the wish
for the healing of suffering.

And then the day begins, limpingly. It doesn’t really feel like Easter,
until, between the feeding of animals
and almost burning
someone’s cream of wheat,
I turn to a soprano who knows
that her redeemer liveth, 

and find in the beauty of her voice, her smiling but determined
enunciation,
a saving grace, 

helped along by the sun shining through clouds, and a texted photo
of a baby in an elephant dress,
being held to stand—

They do not take away
what happened to the body
that I read about, or what happens
to any body,

but they say that there is love also, even
at the doorway of loss,
love that rises again,
though it may need to be held
to stand. 

************************

Happy Easter, Happy Passover.  Another drafty poem for April.  Wishes for All Good. 

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