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First Easter
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Slowly the sapling defenestrates its crown,
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and abdicates its season to the brown
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and fetid revolution of the earth.
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The golden bleeding soldiers of the tree
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lie wasted on the lawn for liberty.
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A walker, pausing, notes the abject prince’s
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decomposing realm, its fall, and winces
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as the first sharp spears of winter’s vanguard
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promise false emancipation for
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the rosebush house-arrested at the door.
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The walker finds a penny in his pocket,
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takes it out and jams the knothole socket
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eye for mourning. Lincoln looks askance.
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Another coin is hurled into the night
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as if that action consummates the rite.
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Upstairs, a watching boy is witness to
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the walker’s superstitious faithless view.
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He quickly looks around his room and finds
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a fast-food cardboard crown, and sails it through
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the bedroom window to the sapling, too.
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First winter passes, crown and copper keeping
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watch in friendly competition. Sleeping
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wood one day awakens, groans and blossoms.
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Dancing branches keep the crown, but fling
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the penny to the ground.
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Long live the king!
