Days of ashes, or of mulch.
Leaf-litter sticking to my feet,
snow even a faint memory
of purity lost and sodden soil.
There are green shoots,
there is increasing light,
but the reality of it is not convincing.
I believe in the ashes
and the dust
and the possibility of repentance.
If not for myself,
at least for others.
Together, we go forward
to receive a mark that brushes off
before we even get home.
Later than night, I find a stray bit
scrawling an exclamation point down my collar.
It will take some scrubbing to get out.
No comments:
Post a Comment