leaves of palm

finally, on this Sunday morning,
when the faithful, the indoctrinated,
gather and imagine pathways
strewn with fronds,
and interspersed with thorns,
the rips and tears
of a billion billion heartaches
come alive, come today,
as the sun makes a return,
and the gales of yesterday
are only a distant memory,
winds blowing over there --
not my wind, but the wind
of others, tossing sea oats
and sending leaves
off the path, no longer carefully laid --
the way unclear now,
after all analysis and guesswork is done,
still murky, searching,
looking for the one.



April 5, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.