Palm Sunday: After the Children Play

My eldest sinks towards me 
a wilted lily 
blushed with rage. 

The older girls
have passed her over. 
I fold her

into my arms, 
longer than hers 
only for a little longer, 

and let her punch 
her bruised pride 
onto my chest, 

knowing these pains
are now
easily remedied. 

I lean against the oak pew 
while she shakes, 
study the Celtic cross:  

addition sign 
encircled, wonder 
what it will take 

to envelop her 
when the pain is  
irreconcilable. 

Originally published in Assisi.

Nominated for “Best of the Net”.