Smudge

by Bill Jansen

A crocus this morning heard my confession.
The same bird looked at me,
its back to the wind.

Kyrie, eleison

There  was a smudge of ashes on my forehead.
The sky wore gray lingerie,
but who was tempted?

Christe, eleison

Processions waited to start on some hawthorns:
processions of cold blossoms,
ashamed of their beauty.

Kyrie, eleison

Beasts and flowers about to take communion.
I get into line.
But only I am moving.

Christe, eleison