I see no master with a band of disciples

approaching Rochester Mills

on this Palm Sunday. Hear no trilling

of women, arms upraised, dancing

with open hearts and hope

along Nashville or Hetzler Road.

Hear no words of praise in Aramaic.

I know the story well.

Have heard it so often as if I could

almost be there at that gate of Jerusalem

among the crowd, maybe sneaking

in with the disciples swept

along by what they don’t know or

what is to come. I sigh at how many

pulpits will hold a preacher that denies

the ordinary humanness that makes

for an invitation of the divine to enter

for a while. Leave something behind

like a story with no distortions, metaphors

strong enough to transform water

into wine. And the other message of the divine:

“There’s no getting around anything.

Especially the Passion that awaits you.”

It is a quiet, cloudless, sun bright morning;

the furnace running, the coffee fresh,

the words, “I am you, you are me”

beginning the processional this Palm Sunday.