Our footprints heal over, a forest rising where we have been.
Where they won’t heal, lakes appear.

People no longer fit inside the houses of their skins
and spill out into sunlight to snack on sunflower seeds.

They laugh and lick the salty grime off their fingers,
and kiss with a fury, as if for one last time.

Even so, Easter comes, with or without the holy fire.
The icons stay untouched, no candles lit.

But in spring, the young won’t do without
their kisses, fire, and sunflower seeds.

And beneath the bright sun of these holy days,
a poisoned blossom opens – dark, unseen.

Until someone close to you – an enemy, a lover –
rises from their chair and leaves.

And our houses turn into gardens. Then to temples.
Down the street, someone rides past on a donkey.

You won’t know who until he steps inside
and sits at your table – this ungodly feast.

In the hollow morning, a bird call rings out.
The last fat of the earth melts away.

Can a person learn to stoop lower,
to need less and take less?

Go on now– try to step back
into the shrinking skin of your shadow.