Just this, for Holy Week . . .
I am going to start living
to my sapling self, leaning toward
that leafless tree Messiah loved
enough to die on.
Maybe its boughs sheltered him once,
from pelting rain,
spread shade like a cloak,
dropped one late fig, surprising his palm—
one small story uniting and
easing them both
at the end, on that hill like a skull.
My brow touches the earth.
Moved by hosannas, echoing
still, deep inside stones,
I rise. Then the tight turn,
lifting fingers, limbs,
my bird-soft hair—
all the thorns, delicately removed.
. . . be like the tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.
“Yes,” from Where the Sky Opens, by Laurie Klein