The sky is the colour of ashes—
White and grey;
The eaves drip icicle tears
falling away
My life is filled with ashes,
my mood is fey;
Death upon death finds my heart
falling away
Across my forehead a cross
—charcoal dust—
Reminds me that my frame
will soon rust
Over the shadow of death
a Cross
Reminds me that life
can flame from loss
The kernel of wheat
must die,
Roots of the tree lie buried far
from the sky
Are these ashen flakes
the soil
Not of death alone, but of
figs and oil?
Are these ashes the Fertile
Land, unseen,
Until I have God’s eyes
to see the green?
Is this ashy, narrow place*
a birth canal?
Is this dark smothering earth
life somehow?
Does the thriving tree begin
as a cross,
Planted in ashes, in death,
in loss?
From that hollow hole
comes Tov**—
Roots mingled with ashes, whose
fruit is love
From the hollow grave
rises Love—
Preparing Earth, through us, for
the Kingdom above.
_____
*In Hebrew the word for Egypt means “a narrow place.”
** Tov is the Hebrew for “good”—a goodness that is generational.
Photo credit: Karsten Würth, Unsplash
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