by Bill Tiepelman
The Eternal Easter of the Enchanted Glade
In a corner of the world untouched by time, where the sun sings a chorus with the earth's verdure, there is a glade—an ethereal expanse where Easter is not merely a day, but a perpetual hymn of rebirth. Here, the dawn of Easter unfurls not with the subtlety of a whisper, but with the profound resonance of an orchestra's crescendo, bringing with it a divine light that inaugurates the season's benediction. As the first rays of the Easter morning breach the nocturnal veil, the forest awakens with a sense of anticipation. Creatures, great and small, feel the stirring of something grand. At the epicenter of this anticipation stands a marvel: The Egg's Benediction: A Hymn of Easter Morning. This egg, a beacon amid the awakening wilds, is adorned with fractal patterns that reflect the spring's embrace. Legends speak of its lines, each a tale of renewal, its contours holding the secrets of life's persistent march forward. Around it, the field vibrates with life: smaller eggs, arrayed like jewels amongst the flowering tapestry, each one a testament to the splendor of the spring season. The valley, known amongst the few who have beheld it as The Gilded Eggs of the Mountain Meadow, is a place where the morning dew retains the earth's warmth, and the sunlight's playful dance with the mist seems like a choreographed ballet. In this pastoral theatre, the The Opulent Egg: Nature's Artistic Heart, commands the meadow, standing guard as the flora and fauna pay their respects to the day. The creatures, each in their celebratory plumage, contribute to the Easter chorus, a melody of life's richness and art's imitation of nature. Children, who by some gentle twist of fate, find their way to this enchanted place, giggle amongst the blooms, their laughter an addition to the Easter hymn. They play in the shadows of the sunbeams, each touch, each step, each breath part of the sacred rite of Easter's celebration. At noon, when the sun crowns the sky, the forest bows in a moment of stillness. The Egg's Coronation by Daybreak is observed—a silent prayer to the continuity of life and the splendor of existence. The grand egg, a vessel of the universe's secrets, shines with a knowing light, a beacon to the infinite cycle of endings and beginnings. As the sun's arc descends, and the The Gilded Eggs of the Mountain Meadow begin to radiate with their own inner light, the children gather. Their hearts are heavy with the day's joy, their spirits lifted by the magic of the glade. They know this is a moment of farewell, yet within them, the memory of the eggs—the symbols of Easter's perpetual grace—will endure. The day's last light casts long shadows and the The Egg's Benediction transitions into a twilight lullaby. As the children step beyond the glade's boundary, the image of the radiant eggs softly dims, leaving behind a lingering promise of their return next Easter, in the heart of the enchanted meadow where the dawn's light is forever golden, and spring’s song never ends. Later That Night... As the chorus of Easter morning fades into the whispered lullabies of twilight, the enchanted glade embraces the tranquility of night. The jubilant glow that bathed the valley in gold and amber now gives way to the velvety hues of dusk. Easter night descends, not with sorrow for the day that has passed, but with the quiet anticipation of the secrets only it can unfold. The opulent eggs that once basked in the sunlight now rest in the protective shadow of the night. They are not abandoned; the stars themselves descend to keep vigil, their silver light adorning each egg with a celestial luminescence. The largest egg, the heart of the day's festivities, now stands as a sentinel, its intricate patterns a testament to the day's joy, softly illuminated by the gentle kiss of moonlight. In the night, the meadow transforms. Fireflies emerge, tiny beacons that dance between the flowers and eggs, a mirror to the starry sky above. The floral perfume is richer now, a heady scent that fills the air with each gentle breeze that whispers through the valley. The nocturnal creatures of the glade, each a part of this Easter narrative, move with a reverence for the hallowed ground, their eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moon and stars. From somewhere deep within the woods, an owl heralds the depth of night, its call a benediction for the dreams to come. The children, who reveled in the light, now slumber in their beds, their minds alight with visions of the day. In their dreams, they return to the meadow, where the grand egg promises that the magic of Easter is not confined to the day, but endures in the heart of every child, in every gleam of starlight, in the endless cycle of night and day. The story of Easter night is not one of endings but of continuous wonder, a promise that as long as there are those who believe in the rebirth and magic it signifies, it will continue to be retold, not just in the glade, but everywhere that hearts and minds are open to the whispers of a spring night's dream.
