On the table, a letter to the Easter Bunny—
the girl has written it in blue pen
thanking him for the joy he brings.
Beside the letter, two baskets
filled with empty plastic eggs.
So much inside wants to be filled. Or so
we believe. Tomorrow morning,
the baskets will be for a moment empty,
the eggs, hidden, ridiculous with candy.
Oh the things we use to stave the void!
There is beauty in barrenness—
just outside the window, the world
is trying to prove it, the field no longer
steeped in snow, yet not yet verdant
and green. And still it’s lovely, a stark,
splendor. though perhaps we need
to recalibrate to see.
Every Easter, she writes, I wake up
soooooooooo excited to find the eggs.
I think of the field, how it takes
no belief for it to fill, for it to burgeon.
And still it is no less magic. I think
of the girl, her joy in giving the Easter Bunny
her most beautiful egg, how she’s learning
the art of emptying. I hope you like it, she writes.
I tell her, I think the Easter Bunny
will cry, tears leaving my eyes, not sure
if I feel more empty, more full.
