Ash from the crematorium,
dust of bombed out buildings,
this we breathe.
In a day, or many,
all our flesh
will be shoveled under, dirt.
Our great grandchildren
whose world we dry up
bring our ashes to us.
Christ comes in all who suffer;
from the border, or Gaza, or Ukraine
they rub their ashes on our foreheads.
We hold our treasure
in crumbling clay vessels.
We are the vessels.
Bless the clay and its crumbling,
even to dust—
the leaking of light.
Let love and humility
with wounded hands
spread our ashes.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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