Sid's Easter Poem

Poet's Easter Morning at the Beach

The sun shedding its cloudy shroud;
The grey mountain rising up to green;
The shore reclaiming its former shape;
The early swimmer surfacing to air;
The crab scurrying out of its burrow;
The hermit abandoning its shell;
The driftwood touching land;
The poet at the threshold of wakefulness,

for a time losing all words for all things,
forgetting all names and all meanings,
and it doesn’t have to be a Sunday.