I’m convinced that if you ponder any aspect of Scripture long enough, you’ll discover a poem waiting to be written. Not that I believe this sonnet of mine is all that great, but writing it was a devotional act. Imagining the withering fronds abandoned after the Triumphal Entry propelled me deeper into the narrative. Regardless of meter and rhyme, I consider this time well-spent.
Crushed
Look now how all the branches left behind
Are pummeled into papery pavement
By th'double-tracking feet of all who went
Away, in search of miracles and signs.
Now any that are left of those bright leaves
Expel vain puffs of putrid dirt and air.
They call, as wisdom, to the passers there,
"You, too, shall be as dust blown in the breeze."
But these browning boughs will soon be blessed to feel,
Though bruiséd, bent, and broken by the crowd
That gathers once again and twice as loud,
The crushing pressure of the promised heel.
Though cloaks and hands are washed, the palms retain
These signs: faint hoof-prints joined by bloodied stains.
Ryanne Molinari 