Thunder grumbles in my stomach
almost louder, certainly
more insistent
than clouds gathering
across the yielding sky.

I pretend God hung them there with clothespins.

Kneading ashes into the days dough
I treat it as a tithe
though I've not pinched any off.

The pennies in a jar by the door
catch my eye.

So many little disks.

So many little lies that we become
and twist about to believe because the believing
is easier that way. We are not dying.

Or so I whisper to the ash
as it succumbs to my hands
and forgets the oven.

© Amber Dawn