The Third Poem

The two adults are painters, Vera and Aleksei Belikh in the Russian countryside. Ksenia is Vera's youngest child

The Third Poem April 17, Easter Sunday, 2022

My days are the same: tea and toast.

Honey in the tea. After seven, the orange

light in the window. I wake slowly, bring

to the table, my current book and my 

water bottle, buttered toast and a mug of

tea. I’m warm enough in my pullover

shirt and  wool jacket. Everything where

I left it. The tea warms me. The toast

soothes my hunger. I pull up the blanket

that lives in my writing chair. Walker

and cane keep me mobile. I write my

Sunday poem. The words find me. I

have no need to work hard, though

today I’ll make bread, which takes

hours. Easter to me is the green world

coming alive again. “Green, green,

green!” I think of the Spanish poet

Lorca. How that expresses Easter, the

Earth’s celebration, the silent blooming

of green, a whole road through silent

green trees, an occasional white dogwood

or pink redbud You’d think I’d be

overwhelmed by such flamboyant green.

But no, I welcome the world’s

resurrection, its return to green.