Hopes resurrect,
flower,
spread ether arms
to measure
the lengthening days, the joy,
flare
into dusks
offer no more
sacrificial apologies,
redeeming the time.

The will of God
stung like honey,
bittered the belly,
but then tranquil . . .
Storm and crow
have flown,
all color returned,
we believe, we know
the eternal version
is on its way.

*
For Deborah and Amy Hatch