Easter’s early this year — too early for the trees.
The crepe myrtle outside Mom’s church missed
the message, stuck in some eternal winter.
While Mom kneels at the altar, praying for healing,
I go outside to stare at this Lenten tree
that doesn’t know it’s supposed to be blooming.
The bark still sheds last year’s scars.
Using the church bulletin, I scrape away the peeling bark.
Flakes like petals fill my hands.