Sun., Apr. 5

My palm branch is on the wall, now;
a sheathed sword over the mantle,
so to speak,
a musket above the door.
It looks a bit like a rib cage,
a row of pews,
a length of track,
but also pleasantly green
wedged behind the wood of the cross
up on our wall.

The original palms would have been vast,
wide, heavy, almost a weapon.
Torn from trunks and laid
along the dusty road,
they kept the clouds from rising,
blocking and obstructing
a view of the person
at the heart of the parade.

You couldn't do that very often,
stripping down the palm trees.
Only for a great occasion,
a sufficient cause, would you
expend the community supply
of acclamation and praise,
made real by green fronds
trodden into the dust:
soon to dry, and crack, and break,
and crumble into the dust of the road.

The dust that the next palm pathway
would keep down, so the crowd could see
their next candidate for celebration.
For there is always another one.

This palm will dry up on my wall,
and the ones in the altar guild closet
will crack and crumble, drying to powder
that will be burnt and mixed next year
with olive oil, and smudged
on foreheads in a cross,
which will mark a pathway for a time
and then be washed away.

The palm trees grow their fresh branches again,
the harvest for Holy Week will come around,
the year will turn and they will be ashes,
and the path stays clear,
allowing us a view of the way ahead,
to the cross, and beyond.