Easter

The primrose

looks like a clump 

of N95's

and the dogwood

makes me think

of white tents 

blooming

in Central Park—

it's not their fault,

this confusion,

this loss of grace—

grinding uncertainty

and grim anguish

foul my vision.

the clump of primrose

is pure and unchanged,

the canopy of dogwood, 

still sweet-scented—

still beckoning 

with open arms.