The Easter Bunny Comes

I'm only four years old,
and I'm hungry for surprise.
I like the crinkle of plastic grass,
and metal wrappers,
and I believe in the mystery
of something for which I draw
my own conclusions.

"Here he comes,"
my mother says
to the sound of feet
echoing through
the apartment hallway.

His feet thump like an accident,
and my little fist of a heart follows
the opaque sound of a reality
I only half believed to be true.