Below tulips tortured by frost,
the eggs of Easter lay in wait
for tiny hands to imprison,
petals shed as innocence lost.
Birth is the antidote to hate,
from shriveled stem life christened.
The sun makes good on promises;
the bunny’s sure path arisen,
a gay and festive springtime gait.
Discover hope despite the costs;
faith will find fruition.
© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved
Cover Art: Glass Gallery
I did not intend to pen a sonnet this Saturday amidst the Easter egg hunt and time with family, but this arrived. A Curtal Sonnet, with the scheme: abcabc dcbdc. Cute little curtail just like Peter Cottontail, don’t you think? Feedback welcome.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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