Egg Hunt


Awake,
a grave refuses
permanence.

Wide eyed lily
witness,
scent
to a blind world.

Mothers tell us,
"Wipe the sleep from your eyes."
O, it's been wiped, mother,
it's been wiped.

Now the blood spilled
is the blood pumped
deep as a welling up
of forgiveness.

Spared despair, we crack eggs
in a bowl and wait,
as our not-a-ghost Guest takes
another minute
to wash the family's feet.