Empty Baskets

 An elastic grey Easter,
the hours pulled themselves along
just you and me puttering,
studying, laughing
at the ennui, the slow
moving spaces between the minutes.
What are they?

Long ago there were grandmothers, fancy
hats, mothers filling Easter baskets,
children considering the problem
of eggs from Easter bunnies, bright grasses
for bare feet to run over.
Then there were hymns of joy
from Anglo-Catholic choirs,
having sung themselves hoarse
relieved that the whole ordeal
finally ends in Resurrection.

Now a few juncos and English sparrows
odd finches and smallish whomevers
swinging by the feeders. Even the cats
are grown dull and too old to hunt them.
Which, come to consider it,
is rather nice.