Penitent

It is the time of year when the hosts of Persephone begin to rise out of the earth. The time of mercy and unseen justice. I stand here a penitent. The sins I have committed lie buried deep in the earth. I have to find them again and color them green.

The lenten trees are massive now, giants

high above my bench in the penitents' glade.

But some unrepentant blue tits dip

to the level of my thoughts and flash

around the nascent daffodils, yellow

before yellow was ever conceived.

                                                               Song

prevails over process, over footstep:

the highest note beyond the range of ears,

rationale of reaching and removing.

I hear it now and always do. Always.

Even the simple act of looking up

is metaphor for justice that I seek:

the transformation of straining prayer

into many-colored forgiveness -

and such a one as will absolve the sins

I have no memory of committing.

I stand judged by the all-believing birds,

the towering trees whose gift it is to smile

into greenliness and wisdom and peace.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

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Author: Jay Landar
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