Hop, hop, hop,
Hop my bunny hop,
Hop along my little bunny
You look sweet and very funny
On this Easter day.
Look and see,
Where the eggs may be,
Here is on and here's another,
Here's a lovely one for mother.
Let us look and see,
Where the eggs may be.
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.
Down the trail old Herbie hops.
At every house he makes a stop
Looking for a ready basket
Into which the candy drops.
Easter morning, faces pop
Out the door of every stop,
Smiling children see with pleasure
All the treats that Herbie drops.
At the end, his tired ears flop.
Herbie heads back to his shop,
Eggs and paint are all around him.
But his Easter work was tops!
They are a gift I have wanted again.
Wanted: One moment in mountains
when winter got so cold
the oil froze before it could burn.
I chopped ferns of hoarfrost from all the windows
and peered up at pines, a wedding cake
by a baker gone mad. Swirls by the thousand
shimmered above me until a cloud
lumbered over a ridge,
bringing the heavier white of more flurries.
Horsie, horsie don't you stop,
Just let your feet go clippety clop,
Your tail goes swish and the wheels go round,
Giddy up we're homeward bound.
Steady Neddy off you trot,
Just let your feet go clippety clop,
Your tail goes swish and the wheels go round,
Giddy up we're off to town.
Horsie, horsie don't you stop,
Just let your feet go clippety clop,
Your tail goes swish and the wheels go round,
Giddy up we're homeward bound.
Once there was a woman who laughed for years uncontrollably after a stroke.
Once there was a child who woke after surgery to find his parents were impostors.
These seagulls above the parking lot today, made of hurricane and ether, they
have flown directly out of the brain wearing little blue-gray masks, like strangers' faces, full
of wingéd mania, like television in waiting rooms. Entertainment. Pain. The rage
of fruit trees in April, and your car, which I parked in a shadow before you died, decorated now with feathers,
We want pictures of everything
Below your waist, and we want
Pictures of your waist. We can't
Talk right now, but we will text you
Into coitus. All thumbs. All bi
Coastal and discreet and masculine
And muscular. No whites. Every
Body a top. We got a career
To think about. No face. We got
Kids to remember. No one over 29.
No one under 30. Our exes hurt us
Into hurting them. Disease free. No
Drugs. We like to get high with
The right person. You
Got a girl? Bring your boy.
Hot cross buns!
Hot cross buns!
One a penny, two a penny,
Hot cross buns!
If your daughters do not like them
Give them to your sons;
But if you haven't any of these little pretty elves
You cannot do better than eat them yourselves.
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’ s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.
The glass door was spinning panes
like an open book.
A suit the color of sky close to night,
wire of eyeglasses a gold moon.
He bowed as if judicial
and called a French name.
Glasses were filled with ice
the color of amber.
We were in America.
He asked me to take his hands.
They are cold, he said.
I warmed his cold hands
as we sat on the rouge banquette.
It was the last May of the century.
