It's Easter Sunday.
Cold enough to spoil a picnic.
Warm enough to a take a walk.
I almost bought a lily plant
with paper moss around its roots.
Spy my inconsistencies as yearning
for a firmer ground than quizzical urges,
leaking pens, leading to a system crash.
Church has crowded parking lots.
I am home with keyboard jigs,
clawing toothless through the sky,
folding clean and dirty clothes
between thick pensive stanza breaks.
My sister's running Altar Guild
and pinning on her pretty hat.

I fathom incongruities as ladders
rocking heavenward,
but cannot trace the lines on maps.
Children live for cookie hour and Easter eggs.
I slam the trunk on crates of them.
We ride our tandem same as wagons
rolling on a pilgrimage.
My husband pumps with two good legs.
I push as hard as body can
with broken putters of a foot.
Communion wine is warming up:
fidget fingers, social climbers,
squeezing limes of marked regret.
We all made plans to covet
daybreak different ways.
With gestures of our exercise.

Religion's cloak--a drawbridge
of retreating storms.
Punching bags of clouded skies.
I study the wick inside this wax,
light a candle in my study,
think about the crucifix.
Was it made of noble pine,
fancy buffed mahogany,
or just our need to splinter sins?
Smell of ham is in the wind.
I wonder why my cross assumed,
motion's untuned orchestra,
insists on playing anyway,
keeps steering me away from prayer.