Palm Sunday

Ah yes, Palm Sunday—

All the good gentiles

Can finally dust off their white shoes

And wear them next week,

For the first Sunday,

After the full moon,

After the equinox.

Til then, they’ll fuss,

And split semantic hairs

Over whether to call them

“Resurrection” eggs,

 Or Easter ones,

Knowing full well the tradition flows

Straight from the ritual river

Ancient as the petulant goddess, Ishtar, herself.

Oh well.

How can I blame them?

For even though I know, at least,

What it is that I lean forward to worship:

The great cycles and spirit of Love and Life,

The vernal time is my favorite, too.

The blades of green striking up in a shoot,

The tiniest of blossoms, sunning together,

Spreading forth their honeyed glow,

The breeze that feels,

Not so much that it is blowing,

But that it is being pulled by my face

On the way to somewhere else.

Yes! All these make me want to fall deeply in love

Again.

So, this my church—

This my halcyon—

This circle of Living Reality

Is where I ponder Life Anew.

-jenn long