Palm Sunday

How many more calculations must be made
to be free of belief in miracles when sunlight
falls with such graceful abandon?  Lip-biting 
onlookers have not awakened to shout their 
derisions to fools who still remain lost 
in the dregs of bad vodka.  Scolding mothers 
have not found anything to pray upon.  
Wonders wander around centers of being
long forgotten.  A daughter cries for attention 
in the loneliest corner.  Dry compassion 
waits for those less well-fed.  A donkey-rider
enters the city claiming to possess the secret
of being in relationship with God and neighbor.