A Farmhouse Easter

Back towards the pine woods, buff hills
Hold the winter, though it wasn't bad,
And though there was scant snow this year
Pond glistens full, recharging from
An earth not stressed for water,
At least not here

And to be sure, daffodils and tiny crocus
Dot the garden, where the ground lies
Disheveled from the creatures
Burrowing all the winter long.

We set the table with old silver
And platters from my mother,
Gone so long I strain to
Remember how she filled
Crystal vases with bright blossoms
Or fretted if the soufflé fell, or
Pursed her lips so not to laugh at my
Brothers' risqué stories.
It seemed then, in memory, that
Easter came with sun and spring,
Scent pungent as the
Loamy earth woke up,
And she was vibrant in those years
Long before she faced the end.

Now this Sunday late afternoon when
I gaze upon the buff hills rolling
Up to meet the dusk grey sky,
The faintest scrim of green seems
To veil my eyes -- in reverie, I cannot say,
Or perhaps it's simply just
The promise of the season,
And we are quiet all together,
Grateful for each other, and the past.

Sunlight long faded, shadows
Deepen in the dining room, we linger,
Feeling ghosts, unsummoned stories,
Some regrets.
I can't say I am unhappy,
I'm just floating on the stream that
Takes us all one day to
Far beyond that scrim,
Where why not say that there
Awaits the golden laughter,
Fragrant flowers, always springing
Easters, and my quixotic mother,
In chorus with a world made right
Because we kept on moving toward
The light beyond our ken.

In my daughter's weathered farmhouse
The kitchen smells of oranges and garlic
A low fire nips the chill and she
Pours a sparkling wine.
We settle in to tussle with the dogs,
And watch the night time gentle down,
Then say goodbye, and leaving then,
Another Easter slips away
Into the waiting blooming.