Easter, as old as the realisation of Spring –
that the sun never dies, that ground revives and
March hares box into an Osterhase that bounds
into daffodils, juggling expertly with eggs
boxed, around chocolate indulgences for sins
half-remembered by a half-forgotten Lent –
borrowed Easter symbols for a dying rising Christ
all named for the goddess of fertility and the dawn.
With a passion Eostre calls, new life in her flight
all light and love and no regrets, nothing to forgive.
I follow, as I must – this Friday, Good without dying,
branch and stock holding new blossoms, leaves
proud and high and bright as any ascension,
nothing crossed out or buried, nothing lost in celebration
of simply living, extravagantly becoming, singing
strong, vibrant – all affirmation in her passing over.
For me, this Easter, a man does not die, though
a woman lives with all the joy of Spring
and requires no forgiveness for long Winter –
only smiles of a goddess returning, bringing
colour, completeness, fullness of purpose
not rising from death, but waking, with a sun ready
to make fruit before she departs again to sleep,
and to play with hares, break eggs and share –
take, eat – she says. This is my body, and I am
indulged and free, at one with Eostre.
2012 © Andie Davidson
[…] goddess Ishtar. I knew this to be wrong, because I’d dug around Eostre instead. The poem is here, if you already need a […]