Aurora Magazine 2020

Aurora

Zacchaeus Linda Keats Renzi

It’s spring again with trees spreading peace in the land. April breezes, twisting lace-limbed leaves, try to sift tangles from my hair.

Too small to see him from the ground, I, a dweller of the limbs, settle smugly on my branch, watching hope in the orphan-eyed children of the streets.

“Unless you become,” he said; and fear walked as a phantom in creviced, pharisaical minds. I laughed, unaware of his hand scooping all space between us, slicing time to nothingness. His words searched the trees for their possession. Quickened leaves clapped in chorus. “Zacchaeus, Zacchaeus, come down.” The quivering branch sent shimmering patterns across his face. Dark, gentle eyes smiled.

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