I’m done with all the earthly tasks that Easter brought,
and decades now past wonder at its central myth.
My loved ones, too, across the miles, no longer walk
those ritual paths of early Mass, then Polaroids with
family on the swept front porch in our best
spring finery. Back then we gripped bright baskets
in our pale pastels—a brand new suit, a flowery dress,
the hat and gloves, those frilly socks and patent
leather shoes—that came right off post picture time
as we crammed candy and convened on the neighbor’s
lawn. Or did we hunt all those eggs dressed to the nines?
In truth, the Resurrection tale we meant to savor
paled amid the pomp crowned by the Easter feast.
Now, pendulum swing past everything, we just eat.
#16 of 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Writing Month, April 2017