Heather Browne- Three Poems

Palm Sunday

We handed out palm fronds,
cut down for today,
to wave and welcome our Holy King.
Swinging and singing
Our leaves dry out, they separate
from branch,
and fall at our feet.
His carpeted walk
I left them there.
Laying down Jesus. 

Worshippers didn’t notice,
stepping on them,
over them, as they left.
Jesus at our feet.

I stayed and picked them up,
one by one.
Now, a leathery hide,
tougher, ribs and veins protruding,
felt.
I rubbed them.
Jesus in my hands,
as they wither,
losing life,
and tear.

Recycling Palm Sunday

He pulled down the fronds
from the cross
Duct tape – no nails
Easily removed – leaving no mark
I hadn’t thought much about them, until they were gone.
Do we welcome Jesus to the cross?

He crumpled them, tossing
them into the white plastic trash bag,
picking up remnants – leaving no trace
Sealed and pitched

I went and reclaimed it,
making it mine.
Plastic doesn’t break down
Preserving decomposing
Tearing the body bag
with nails,
a musty sharp smell
tightening throat – hard to breathe
I placed the palms on top
of our mulch pile,
where gardeners would work them,
covering them
and returning them into the earth,
waiting
until the time
to spring forth
new life.
  

Our Daily Bread

October moon refused his place and kneeled
Pulling low on azure sky
Unfinished brass and beaded chain
He came to light, dangling far beneath the stars

Longing all the world to know his saints
Ignatius, Sophia, Mother Mary
Glorifying their names, rolling beads upon the wind
Palms bow and blow

Give us this day our daily bread
Communion wafer waxed offered reverently upon our hungered tongue
Everything, everything under the stars and moon
Obtainable in preservation