She, cold as stone, was once warm

and with soft, scented skin flushed pink

from a beating heart. And she moved.

She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.

Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.

Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.

 

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The Ashes

open a season of fasting and prayer.

This morning, a white dusting of snow.

This afternoon, black dust that we are,

and to which we will all return,

for those who still need a reminder.

 

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