Easter Morning

It was our hands, smelling of vinegar,
Our nails vivid, tie-dyed pastels
Digging through the crimped paper grass
To hunt out the last, elusive chocolate eggs.
Scratching futilely at the lace collars
As we listened to Robin Lamont sing
“Day by Day” on our old CRT TV.
From the choir loft, on Sunday morning,
Trumpeters bouyed us up,
Reminding us that we, too, were alive.