It rains all day across the sleepy town
on Holy Saturday. Between Passover,
Easter. Hobo twirls a green clover
between his fingertips. He's on his own.
The hollow gray of absent almond J
seems to stand for an ancient enmity, still
unreconciled... though we have indeed all
drunk from the everlasting well. Amen. Selah.
And Hobo and his ne'er-do-wells (lightweight
poets, dreamers, Beats) figure a familiar
impasse. What to make of Adam's labor
in the dust, and property – of all sedate
hard-purchased husbandry – beside their trilling
Eden-visions? Perhaps, somehow, these two
knots are entangled, under Babylon willows...
the road to Paradise spun through their mingling.
Blackstone, Maximus make Lenten offerings
for wayward prodigality. A service
of remembering, only (and charity). It is
an emblematic echo – icon of that singular
surrendering (inimitable and complete).
Gift of God-in-God, and God-in-Man –
of God-with-us, in us. Redemption
(it is finished). Now the Paraclete
breathes fire behind stray roving clouds,
slow-rambling spring rain; the otherness
of an outcast almond tree is still with us –
its wavering hobo-stem (rooted) still sings.