Backward Mutters

A poem for Ash Wednesday.

I went to burn the palm fronds
For the Ash Wednesday service,
But when I looked, there weren’t any.

Remember?
There were no palms last spring,
Nor were there bodies in this building.
Here I am left holding the bag
Of one more thing taken away
By this year’s passion play.

“Shake it off,” I tell myself.
Don’t let it take hold
The one-more-thing of thousands
Of smears imposed
In marks of death and dust
Streaked with lines of tears
By COVID’S cold finger.

And with that push,
I set out again to forsake despair
That I might arrive again at
Resurrection.

© Randall Edwards 2021