Palm Sunday but no church
city farm is where we worship
the muck between the
fabricated cobbles.
There is no need for invention,
in a stable a donkey
snorts dandelion leaves from my hand
warm and wet.
The sun has sprung into April
a wind still cools my muffled torso
and ruffles the white down of wandering
snow-geese.
I feel agnostic.
