Palm Sunday (poem)
This Holy Week came early by. ‘Mid frost, cheek-stinging sleet we raised our pussy willow branches, gazed upon the processed corpus high. Iced fingers grasped each other, vied for warmth within our cowl sleeves hid. Prostrating, to the floor we slid when Life cried out, and lastly sighed. Behind the altar, aspens reach into the wind and persevere; steadfast they stretch horizons wear- y, patience by their stance to teach. Jerusalem! To thee we ride for on another tree, Christ died.
Sheryl Frances Chen, O.C.S.O.