At first I’d rejected my wife’s idea
of an Easter egg hunt in our yard for the kids,
the youngest of whom is sixteen.
They’ll think it’s childish, I said.
But she prevailed, so here I am creeping
around my yard at ten a.m. trying to hide
three dozen plastic eggs with prizes inside,
and I discover that the hot pink and orange ones
are the hardest to camouflage. I carry a notebook
and mark the location of each egg,
because at my age it gets harder to remember
details without a list. It’s not such a bad day
to be out here, sunny with a cool breeze.
I plant a blue egg under the boxwood,
a green one inside the rain gutter spout.
I come across my neighbors in the side yard
under my blooming dogwood tree,
dressed to their Easter nines for a family photo.
I send my holiday wishes and make a joke about
my notebook, then continue on my secret mission.
Later, when our guests have arrived, my wife
sends them out to the yard – two teenagers
and four young adults, one in spiked heels –
to hunt for eggs. They have a ball. She was right
after all. As they chatter excitedly about their finds
and the goodies inside them, I look back
at my dogwood, and notice how much it’s grown.