No cave, cleft, or ocean shattering
The only trumpet “Hot Cross Buns”
blatting from my daughter’s open
I circle the block to find my messengers:
a whimpering beagle roped to a
ear flipped inside out. Cracked rainbow pinwheels,
plaster Nessie in the dandelions,
and positioned for some prophecy of beauty.
If only a forsythia opened by my
I would spend a week in resurrection. If only
a birdbath and bench for prayer. Or
on the front steps, concrete wings spread
over a basket of trailing lobelia.
Who could hide
from that serene, carved smile? But we always enter
through the garage instead: crushed
mud-scabbed boots, jump ropes coiled
with shovels and bikes. They were
never meant to lie
in our way. Like it or not, they speak.