Easter

Mid-morning, a girl and dog attend the woods,

the lilies of the valley just shy thin shoots.

The Boy Scouts' flying squirrel huts are crooked

after last night's storm, and the woody vines tangled loops,

depending. Girl palms the oak she calls half hers,

two trunks from one. Dog pees on a painted stone.

Off trail and leash, paw prints of mud daub girl's jeans:

little wolf, she calls the dog. Little lamb, goat,

little kangaroo, little bat, sea lion,

little goose, cow, muskrat, water buffalo,

little antelope, dolphin, Rodent of Unusual Size,

little griffin, cupbearer, acolyte of logs.

Dog nibbles on new grass, lifts nostrils to air.

Girl stares up at branches refracting the sun:

her expectation of a vision, her lack

of surprise should one come. Going home she must

pick up milk at the town's only open store.

Dog sits in the car with the radio on.

Under the fluorescence, products appear lush

and skin pale. Pastel candy's in the sale bins,

basket toys are marked down: fuzzy ducklings

diapered in cracked halves of eggshells, girl bunnies

and boy robins in smart petticoats and suits.

Some can talk, and wear stickers—Squeeze Me, Try Me.

Source: Bed of Impatiens (Able Muse Press, 2016)