Easter

It is not about spring.

Not about new grass appearing.

Not about the warm air,

the lengthening of days.

It is not about a fresh start,

or taking a walk in the park

to hear the birds sing.

One must go to the cemetery,

read the names on the stones.

Bring to mind the sound of his voice,

see her eyes smiling once again.

Memories and tears.

Only memories and tears.

Then, only then, hear

the story once again.

Gary