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All hail the Easter Bunny.

There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts
enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals
freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift
to the weather. A small token of spring.
Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness
deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup
and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers.
It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits
pressed for the deadline on velvety pews,
gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic
where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines
and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions.
Who needs a Bible?
We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate
pressed against our lips
honoring the risen from a sealed tomb
after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips
and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns.
Let me celebrate once.
Once in my life,
go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes
and paper thin pages of Psalms
Songs of Songs and Proverbs that I probably should study
more often.
Maybe it will count?
Jesus couldn't possibly be that angry at me,
I mean (could he?) after all, I am his child.
I yearn him, but don't want to go.
Feel like I'm all fluff
like the cotton tailed pink nosed rabbit
staring at me from a pharmacy window screaming
1/2 off Sale! Buy Now!
only my soul isn't discounted enough.
No, he appreciates truth.
The kind that comes from enclosed spaces and warm
embraces, the wind that blows my hair to let me know of presence
yet hard enough to shake me in a storm
an affirmation of everything being in control.
Rather it just be me and him,
an old friend
rather than a magical rabbit summoned by a magician
visiting homes hopping haphazardly among the ruins
of open candy wrappers and plastic grass strewn aside
for a minutes glance.
a tshirt. jeans. my Chuck Taylors.
nothing less
than the pure edifice
of finding God in me,
as me.

Un-hail the Easter bunny.

Poem 9 of 30, April 2012

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