Easter Sunday

Spring's first fruits are plucked by little hands

and tucked into the glass on the windowsill,

by the rosy cheeked one and the blue eyed one

and the brown eyed one too,

and the smell of the fresh air is in their hair

as I pull them close and breath a prayer

of thanks to them

and for them

and their gifts.

And He, the first fruit,

plucked from the tomb,

with eternity in His eyes

and the scent of heaven in His hair,

pulls us close and breathes a prayer

of mediation for us.

Thanks be to Him for this indescribable gift.