The tree Judas picked to hang himself needed pure branches—
fragrant bark marked by pink pocketed flowery branches.
His hands and the rope danced slow from loops to noose, ends to knots.
He scanned the tree with closed eyes for a path up the branches.
He had just purchased the field—blood field bought with blood money.
Such speedy investment for what he could do with branches.
He climbed the tree because he couldn’t get over his past.
Betraying a friend for human-etched coins deserved branches.
Judas had kissed Jesus’ cheek as a sign for arrest.
Like snakes, priests and elders emerged from bushy branches.
Blood licked the redbud’s pink bloom carmine after Judas fell.
No amount of rain or baking sun could cleanse those branches.