on the road home the miles feel
faster than those on the road
out of town – my body responds
from muscle memory, my mind
working like a pace car,knowing
what to feel with each passing
billboard, how long to wait,
how to titrate the anticipation.
familiar roads are shorter roads
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 yet
become so hurried or harried.
I don’t want to get to Easter
because the road is familiar,
or the liturgy expected. I want
to be stricken and surprised,
lost and found, broken and
spilled out; I want to find my
old footprints and know
this is not the same old road.
Peace,
Milton
Wow does that ever speak to me! I too do not want this to be the same old road, but I haven’t found a satisfactory way of seeing it with new eyes this year. Maybe now, at the end, just a peep…