sun-day

There is the blaze
that begins slow,
the way you blow gently
on the tinder
and whisper, "grow."
And how the tiny
compact flame,
invisible,
still burns,
Evaporating ice,
quietly waiting
invisible, blue,
undaunted in its heat.

A woman walks down the
street, singing,
and in my own silence
i join her hymn,
the heart inside me
singing Hosannah
(it is Palm Sunday),
and noticing how now the
heaven's grey rain
has slowed and the
sun, a burning ball
so tiny in our sky,
begins to burn our distant
clouds back to blue.