Under fallen palm fronds, the night birds are quiet… the others sleep by moonlight that night
So… splinters of prayers and choruses of tombs and nails and crosses are for His ears, alone
and a million, million nods here and over there follow Him as He time-travels
from church to church where women are stuffed into floral dresses like Thanksgiving turkeys
and He goes from street to street as gangstas signal others to kill Him…
there are dogs in pounds at Christmas and slaves forced to make Easter baskets and egg cartons full of little girls, crying in cages where vileness slithers like snakes in gardens…
and darkness covers the face of the earth.
So…
He touches each face that hates Him caresses each hand that hits at him takes leashes handed to Him by slave-whipped indifference and even while He weaves rainbows, prepares to be blamed for it all.
So…
He freefalls back into His own frame watches nighthawks circle like Easter songs above His head
and once again walks through gardens and prays