here, scenes of our earliest hours lived easter morn, baby's second, when quiet, holy light spilled over our apartment, four flights up, and our morning song was one of baby's squeals over the contents of an easter basket, ukulele strums, vivaldi's the four seasons, hands at work atop the cake (frosting, scattering violets) we would share with family in the afternoon, papa just home from the farmers market offering hot coffee and sweetest words: i brought you easter daffodils, my own thankful exhalations as the thought rang like a bell in the cathedral of my chest: to be a mother on easter, yes, this, too, i wished for...
which is to say, a morning song of gratitude and grace, love and spring, redemption and peace and celebration. joy, bountiful.
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