bus ride home

you transcend
yet descend.i see you.divine hands on young minds molding mendingmurmuringas they readdark stillness folds us in warmthwe drive past mountainsthey noticenottransformed by the wordsbefore them.what happened after he rose?question marks lingerin the aircurving open.fragile branchesbrittle bends in the road soft hearts --father
cushion their fall
on this journey.