If I could write an Easter sonnet
it would not be about a bonnet
or a bunny or an egg. Why write
of them, when, near midnight
this Good Friday I have seen
the April moon, benign, serene,
companioned by the southern stars.
I looked beyond slim metal bars
fixed to my window, through the pane
saw the moon’s slow, tender wane
to half itself, but no less bright,
an upturned bowl, a cup of light.
For a moment I saw more than gloss:
through glass clearly moon became a cross.