Eastertide. I’m legging a bag of soil
To freshen the planter with daffodils, tulips, and grape
Hyacinths. Tossing the trowel, eager for toil,
Last year’s roots barehanded I rake out.

My girls whirl through the yard jacketless, ribboning
As kites before they’re caught down; they’ve found
Something. A festive egg, windblown littering,
They bring me as treasure. Feeling sure and grounded

After my stint in the dirt, I palm the turquoise
Specimen, light as foam—fake perfection.
They believe it’s real. “Look,” I voice,
And, testing it between finger and thumb,

I crush it. The yolk splatters like paint,
And shell-blue enamel stuns to my hand.
“The baby bird! The baby bird!” they complain.
“No,” I lie—besides, it wouldn’t’ve hatched.

I stumble to the spigot to wash off the mess.
The cold water shocks, shocks—I confess
My eyes could not see it. I laugh but just
To make the rising, choking redness less.

Eastertide. The girls rush me to the neighbors’
Porch where a pigeon nests, her baby behind,
With the still, beady eyes of a stuffed bird—
But then she blinks. Of course. She is alive.

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