Palm Sunday

A gray opening – yet unearned –

   seen in echoes,

ageless with rounded full edges,

syllables kept reserved in the

   back room: opened this day only.

Entrances envelop;

   attempts at humility are

confession

of a year’s hard word on benches

   still harder while birdsong seeps

through the color and beckons all.

Smoke dissipating leaves blued

   outlines with thirst unslaked;

so it has always been: epoch to

   century: now decade and

year.

Storing burnt fates for futures

   uncertain – a nefarious gamble:

blessing fronds as we watch

the lost

   benediction.

This victory smolders –

   branches fallen silent:

returned to the musty trunk;

   ashes and forgotten felt-backed figures:

a dark communion.