The Second Easter

The prophesy stated
That once another Easter hopped around
On bunny paws, with painted eggs
& chicks & indigestible plastic grass,
And planted a cross on my foolish birthday,
Then I would perish.
So here it comes, and the question arises:
Is there a geas attached to this forecast,
And if so, will my news-bandying
Jinx the jinx, or alter it?
What's the worst that can happen?
The dire doom may advance by a day,
One intake of breath within millions,
A span of sixty-two years . . .
Or a more dreadful fate may replace it.
The hour approaches,
The notched wheels whir,
The clock prepares to strike . . .
This may be my last poem.