Big Spring--Easter Sunday

That wet god speaks to her in shivers
before his watery altar, he flings his hair,
green in the aftermath of storm.
She stands in his presence, proud, not penitent,
with no need to kneel in foam spray
the roar of roiling water.
Were it not for the fear of being discovered
forces inside her would fling her prostrate
face down at the water's edge. A life wish
more potent than sex commands
this inarticulate attraction in chill April
as she takes off her glasses, caught in the rapture
bows to the phlox, sweet scent in the air.
She praises the water echoing in her veins,
the land surf on rocks, the tumblestone pulse
surging aqua cold from uncharted caves--
the constant power washes over her in waves
terror overcome, the water god takes her
this Easter morning, when an earthly force
does not roll, but dissolves away the stone.

Copyright 1990 Jo Schaper

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