Three Cinquains

Lent, Late March

Thank you,
I’d like to say—
These clouds, this pelting rain,
This earthy scent of change now on
Its way.

Holy Saturday

A child—
He’s not quite six—
Digs in the same cold earth.
The ache his mother, watching, feels
Is old.

Easter Monday

Eight blooms!
Our orchid at
Its peak—unblemished whites,
Glossy green, rubbery, reaching leaves—
For now.