, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

My eldest daughter loves Easter so much. It is better than birthdays, Christmas, and Lady Gaga. She has been talking about Easter since November. She and her grandma made a rabbit costume just for this weekend, so she can pretend to be the Easter bunny and sneak down to put chocolates under our pillows.

Tonight we dyed easter eggs, and I got to thinking about the tradition. It comes, I’ve learned, from the Orthodox church’s tradition of starting the Lenten season on Clean Monday (not Ash Wednesday) so the eggs and dairy could be used up before Lent starts. Because the chickens wouldn’t get the memo, there were a surplus of boiled eggs to use up after lent, and because we are super creative humans, we made ’em pretty.

In Ukraine, they use a batik method of wax-dyeing called Pysanky. When I was young, we had a few of these cool wax wand pen things, that were made of wood and brass, where you could put wax in the tip and heat it up and then blow through the wooden pen part to make designs. I’m not describing that right, so I’m going to look it up. pysanky pen

Cool instruments This one isn’t quite like ours, because you don’t have to blow through it, but it was the best google images could do. It is remarkable that I know about something the internet does not. We win.

Our eggs never looked anything like this:

images (14)

But we had fun trying. I’m going to try to poem about these eggs.



Go now, write the melt on those eggs,

those eggs that belong to Ukraine now,

and to its its brave people right now,

to those multitudes blowing wax on eggs,

in hopes of resurrection.

Blow that wax on the season,

of Lent in Revolution.

Let the wax set in the dye,

and scrape it off later.

Write voices on the shells,

and color them with the bloodiest berries.

To give pysanky is to give life.

One for each of you, and you, and you,

one for a family of fifty,

and of fifty million.

Each is a gift to be shattered,


and then reborn.


Okay, Ukraine. Hearts are with you. It seems lazy, to sit in my safety and write across politics, but if I can poem five lines for you now, and five again another time, and then more and more each day of your resistance, then maybe that helps, somehow? I don’t know. I do know this. This one feels good. Happy Friday, poemies.