White is her dress yet brown is her skin,
The delicate shells of the eggs she is hiding.
There is time for spring in her dark chocolate eyes
While winter keeps a steel-like grip upon the skies.
Her blood still as red as the sunrise creeping
Out on the freshly cut lawn, spilling, spilling.
Her cheeks darken to a deep purple,
The sign of shame, the sign of the arisen.
Where would she be now if not for the shackles
Awaiting to be free, patience standing still.
She puts the basket down and shivers in the grass,
Forgiveness in her fast beating heart.
The children and the men will find her,
Until like the hare she dashes quietly away.
© 2018 Valerie Hathaway