Easter Morning Maine, 1954

wee hours of the morning we hike to
top of the nearby hill, the women
in curlers, men unshaved I’m six and in
pj’s rowdy and happy to be out
in the chill of pre-dawn
walking up the dirt road past
the cemetery where our ancestors sleep waiting

the trumpet playing, “HE AROSE,”
clear and breaking the silence
my father giving for once a very
short speech, each of us in awe
of the breaking of that grip that
death had, a rising from the grave
crawling over our skin waking up the senses
wiping away the tears of sorrow and injustice

poor Mainers sing Up from the Grave,
looking for comfort and a way to make it
laughing on the way back to the church
kitchen where for once the men did
the cooking, an abundance of biscuits
scrambled eggs, bacon and gratitude
simple this faith with eyes open beyond the grave.


One thought on “Easter Morning Maine, 1954

  1. Jude I just loved this poem … Perfect for Easter ! The way you write it gets under the skin … It is so real here and now to remind we are alive and that is no time to watch TV but to go out there and get going…


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