This is not an Easter morning, yet
the flaxen moon guarding my tomb of guilt
has rolled back, and hovers above the swale.
Noontime shadows constrict to picket fences.
Snowbirds consider distant oak branch-call.
Clocks chime against midmorning dissonance.
As children scramble drawing papers,
their fat orange suns defining their blue day
my despair exhales, at ease snuffing remaining light.
The cock cannot crow in this ill-timed dark.
Blinded hawk, beak and talons prone,
discerns his choices on the breeze, but
lags at the edge of free will’s breadth.
I relive the gilded night you welcomed me, but
now you conceal your face in the midday dusk.
Strike your candle: illuminate my dim crossing.
Re-offer red wine that douses more than thirst.
Be flint to fuse drowsy passion in our cupped palms.