Actually, from where we sit,
on the patio in the warm
(southern) California sun,
we see at least 20 shaggy heads
rising high into the blue
on long columns, their
pendulous leaflets swinging
freely in the merest breeze.

The seven closest seem
perfectly arranged, a small
choir of California fan palms
singing their hallelujahs
and hosannas, their
fronds huddled at the top,
an open crown pointing
skyward—

not of thorns but
of life-giving green
fanning the quiet, as we
sit and listen to this day
we’ve been given,
one overseen by wise
ones like these, beloveds
we cannot see, whispering,
peace, sweet peace, and
goodwill to all.