Easter Island

"Our Lord writes the promise of the resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime." --Martin Luther

When Easter greets them, not in tulips or daffodils
but in changing colors, can they see
past the diminishing days and falling
temperatures? Can they imagine
buds on trees when there are none--
when their ancestors have long since
extinguished palm trees for the triumphal
entry of massive statues,
moai maneuvered to prominent posts
along the coastline--when they have
no hope of reading the resurrection
promise even in crimsons and burnt oranges,
when no trees are there to shed graveclothes?

When the coming of Easter announces the fall,
do they praise the Fall that brought them
this season, praise the God who allows
darkness, that they may see death
and know life?

When Easter arrives in the midst of autumn,
they don't get teased by sunny
barefoot weather, then slapped by a cold front;
theirs is a constant, predictable dying.
They wear warm clothes, celebrate new life
and watch the sun distance himself
from their land so distant from all
neighbors--no one to meet
them at the tomb and tell them
He is risen.

After Good Friday, they wait--
not three days, but what must seem
like an eternity--
for spring to come.