the road from here to resurrection
is mapped in my mind (and my heart),
from palms to parables, crowds to
cross. I know the days, the steps,
the words, the mileposts.
my feet are covered with the dust
from the feet of disciples
who walked this way when the road was
not so well marked and Holy Week
had not been scheduled.
I won’t get to Easter because
the road is familiar, or the
liturgy expected. I need
more than a map or a memory
to roll away the stone.