24 March 2018

Ashes

Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Paris, Holy Saturday, 2011.
It seems like I was stronger once;
    I thought I could understand.

Now I'm too lonely to remember taste;
    too tired to recompose;
    too busy to believe in doing things.

I've lost my faith in what will happen next.

    “...you are dust,
        and to dust you shall return.”


I miss Grandma, her spotless house, and running walk,
    her “age is a state of mind.”

I think of her hunched over,
    whispering back and forth,
    “Oh, God, help us.”

Tears rolling down her cheeks.

    “...you are dust,
        and to dust you shall return.”


We are the suicidal and less able,
    left behind by admonition to prosperity.

We are the rich in shame,
    the living dead
    oppressive self-consumers.

Unwanted by ourselves.

    “...you are dust,
        and to dust you shall return.”


Dreams blow away like smoke,
    and those gold touches turn to fools.

Yet I am not amazed that there are ashes
    but that there are trees;
    surprised by promises.

“Remember also your Creator....”

    “...you are dust,
        and to dust you shall return.”


In place of fame a cross and tomb,
    An unexpected fellow sufferer.

The king of thorns, dead on a tree;
    Lamb not passed over;
    Day turned to night, the veil split.

A psalmist's and a pagan's intuition.

    “...this was the Son of God...”
        “Repent...Believe...”

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