Easter

I remember waking up

to weather like this:

cool with hints

of chlorophyll and the tulips

my mother loves.

I can see our faded curtains

fluttering in soft breaths

of spring wind. Cold sheets,

blue light, coffee down the hall.

Not much at all

to consider

other than mourning doves

before the rain. And the way

we mixed pellets of dye

and vinegar for Easter.

White crayons on the table,

and spindly dippers to submerge

pale eggs in midnight blue

and violet. I wanted all

the colors. The shell

turned murky brown,

and when I dropped it,

I mourned its ugliness.