The Branch

Think me not a man of foolish misadventure.
Contentment is mine in simple things.
My joy lives in the tally of ledgers,
promises made and kept, the
predictability of light for
my day and darkness
for my night.  I seek
not, but I am
sought.

Why, then, am I drawn to this moment?
What impulse defies the normality
of my time and thought? Why?
In this crowd of logical
inquiry, I stand with a
branch in my hand
and wait for the
arrival of the
meteoric
one.

Rising star, momentary magic in the costume
of a simple man, person of the people,
legitimizer of all that is illegitimate.
Yet, admired, even adored by
all who fall under his spell.
They flock to his side,
hear his agreeable
rhetoric, and
follow his
steps.

What longing does his teaching satisfy?
What emptiness of life is filled by
one of common stock and of
unknown originality?  I
wonder as I look at
the faces of those
around me and
as I hold this
palm branch
in my hand.

Think me not a man of foolish misadventure.
Curiosity challenges my certainties and
warns of life’s incongruities while all
the time drawing me ever closer
to the edge of unexamined
reality.  I do not pursue
but am pursued by
the shadow of
one speaking
my name.