PoetryRecoveryEaster Sunday - weaving crosses out of palms;
each bend carries - back to the river;
knotting the reeds into wreaths
I set them in the water.
Devoted to sorrow; touched, as a child.
The spark of youth, lulled - from my eyes
the light thrown high.
Weaving palms - to return, to the water's edge;
still, I hold the reeds taut in my fingers
forever, intimate in my mind.
Death reared - guided forward
into the unknown dark; told to - abandon fear
under the touch - of surrender.
Dusk consumes dark water
the sky looses light, stars arise;
one spec catches I
intimates - that we are one of many.