We’ll celebrate the Lamb with lamb,
and eggs, and tender green and growing things.
New life for all of us.
Like Martha, I dig in to prepare
with whipping and with chopping, and with
scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.
Exhausted, I slip into the shower and luxuriate with
bubbles, and with lotion, and with
clean and dripping hair,
and with heat.
It’s far too late for Easter.
It’s far too hot for Easter.
All alone, I steal some time,
limp under the ceiling fan.
Just a few moments.
The blinds are drawn, but a breeze drifts through
the open windows.
It’s dim, but my eyelids flicker red and black
as the sun slips in and out of clouds.
The hum of mowers near and far
as men beat back encroaching entropy.
The whoosh of bathroom fans
sucking steam from sweet-scented air.
My head is full of drowsy buzz.
I am cooling.
I am drying.
I am dreaming.