Vested clergy, their souls
engorged by millennia
of annual hunts
for the elusive Lord Christ,
lead a caffeinated shuffle
across church parking lots.
Their parades track alleluias
and scatter astonishments past
sheds still mum.
Their processions spread praises
near dumfounded dumpsters,
as crane-neck lights blink and
doze off above them.
Wakened and softened by therapy
of the sun, soil underfoot waits
for seeds to be pressed in,
and for heavy root-ball offerings
to be presented from the knees,
to the altar of the earth,
prepared today, as on no other,
for glory and growth of mystery.