RUSTLING LEAVES
Jesus asks
To count their number
Love flowing from His eyes
He knows
It takes but a glimpse
For the God-man to be realized
At dawn
He walks amid rustling leaves
Moving slowly through the crowd
Piercing the darkness
Recognizing
The weak, humble, lame and proud
It’s then
He utters parables
Throwing seed into their ground
Some will be opened
Some closed
It’s what their earth allows
At sunset
The Master speaks hard things
There’s few in the crowd
Jesus is left With rustling leaves
And twelve disciples who have bowed.
Rita Joyce ©1999
Rita's Publishing 