thorn

in the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill

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clean

i finally got my feet washed.
they were sore from a day
of running and standing still,
of impatience and veiled pride,
and i wondered, as i sat in the pew,
whether the one who washed them
would be able to smell the sweat
from my socks and shoes.

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the only son (and his mother)

i read about a mother
who had an only son
cut down in his prime,
just north of 33.
she stood at his graveside
weeping, watering
the freshly-dug earth
with her tears, waiting.

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palm sunday

the crowd gathers in,
eager, excited, waiting
for the arrival
of the champion.

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