SUNDAY PALM
The muted still-gray river
slides past cottonwoods
& snow, makes hay towards
New Orleans. Fevered février –
saison de décision. Party
of the partisans puts up
game faces – trumpets
bray wide, nosing opportunity –
battle flags ahoist, strong words
spray sound (Spartan array).
She moseys on her way,
accompanied by big black birds.
My soul, you tap your Sunday palm.
Must carve down, serpentine,
through plated clay – shed skin
to utmost bone. A Lenten hymn –
let it all go. Beneath gray stone
lies diamond – the fiery
akme of the maker,
kamen of Cape Horn (cross-thorn).
The Rio flows toward the Gulf
into the center of the earth.
Where molten rock gives birth
to metamorphs of sheep & wolf –
of black & white, of red & gold.
This alchemy’s a Union
sparked before the sun –
along still waters (as of old).
2.18.16
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