Palm Sunday

Snow falls on dirty streets, and this is spring.
One crow hunkers on a white wet branch,
a maple tree naked to the storm,
and this is spring.

The cat sleeps on a hot air register
engulfed in a dream of heat.  A child’s
echo dies within the bitter wind,
and this is spring.

It tasks me, binds me,
death ranging at my back.

Snow falls on empty streets.
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near without brakes.
And this is spring.

One thought on “Palm Sunday

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