Soft morning light
Spills across the Earth,
Like a whisper
That something has returned.
Petals open without asking permission,
Birds stitch the sky
Back together with song
And quiet ground remembers
How to breathe again.
There is something holy
In the way life insists-
In green pushing through cold soil,
In hope rising where it once was buried.
Easter is not loud.
It is gently unfolding,
A promise written in
Sunlight and shadow:
That endings are never the end,
And even the stillest stone
Can be rolled away.
My Poetic Style 
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