Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

Aloft in the blue sky morning a solitary crow
circled idly overhead on that March
day like a bewildered palmer.
The soft, spring weather lent
the Sabbath dawn expectancy. A gusty wind
beneath his soaring wings twisted

the arcs of his errant path. Beneath the bird’s twisted
meandering a raucous, belligerent cockcrow
sounded through the streets that wind
the city, itself a dreadful, long disputed march
of earth and sky, saints and sinners. The walls’ benevolent
mass greeted chanting palmers

who finished their pilgrimage and palmed
the ancient stones. Their twisted
braids blessed the holy ground. The raven, hanging indolent,
ignored below but eyed by circling crows
from Beersheba to Dan, heard a sudden marching
sound of drums and screeling winds

announce a coming day whose blasting winds
would shatter stony walls, yet leave the bruiséd palm
unharmed, fresh and green. An eager mob marched
from the city through the open gates, their twisted 
faces grinning. Despite the humble ass and foal they crowed
at Herod’s pikes and Roman spears, and lent

their coats and tunics to the dirty streets, for even laws relent
when a populace hears a divine renewing wind
driving under gates like a crowbar.
Maddened authorities emptied money bags in open palms.
Suddenly reborn as criminals they twisted
schemes, and called for protest marches

to halt the invader’s coming. But the ruthless march
persisted as hosannas sounded, crowds clamored and the silent  
mare and foal advanced. Dust devils danced and twisted
on dung-grimy streets, and tongues of stone sang as the wind
stirred the feathered ferns and spiny palms,
and overhead appeared a murder of crows. 

On this Palm Sunday the twisted crown
And black crows hail our solemn Lent,
as at our backs a mighty wind propels us into march.