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#ashwednesday
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com Ice Wednesday 2021 Many crosses of ice but no ashes Trees sagging from the icicles dragging Little birds desperate for last summer’s seeds The ice ground whitening, whitening, disappearing The power flickers and flickers and fails And the day is one of lanterns and firewood Everyone wrapped up in blankets and thoughts Reading books in glaring blue battery-light The roads are closed, and we are exiled home Our Lenten ashes are in having no ashes “…last summer’s seeds” – I grow sunflowers and in the autumn save the seeds in that famous cool, dry place in paper or cloth, and in addition to commercial chicken scratch feed them to the birds and squirrels throughout the winter.
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Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 9:53 AM UTC
lawrence-hall
Ice Wednesday 2021
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com Ice Wednesday 2021 Many crosses of ice but no ashes Trees sagging from the icicles dragging Little birds desperate for last summer’s seeds The ice ground whitening, whitening, disappearing The power flickers and flickers and fails And the day is one of lanterns and firewood Everyone wrapped up in blankets and thoughts Reading books in glaring blue battery-light The roads are closed, and we are exiled home Our Lenten ashes are in having no ashes “…last summer’s seeds” – I grow sunflowers and in the autumn save the seeds in that famous cool, dry place in paper or cloth, and in addition to commercial chicken scratch feed them to the birds and squirrels throughout the winter.
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Early Wednesday morning I rise and take a breath I feel my life course through me, but tis a life of death The sky shrouds itself in solemn mist, as if nature knows the story How death was chosen over life, and ashes over glory I sew a fragile garment to hide my shame from ages past My crude clothing of smile-coated lies...instead of the outward garb of grass Prepared for my funeral, with black, on black, on black The golden cross hung 'round my neck shows whom I'm seeking, and says, "There's no going back" I step out into a world that crumbles beneath my feet To find sanctuary for my restless soul: a place with Christ to meet A place where prayers have a scent, and holiness a sound A place where I can touch my Rock, and feel my Solid Ground I kneel down to confess my faults, all my own in a multitude Alone I whisper my many faults, yet I know I'm not in solitude For all fall short, all shall die, and all shall feel great pain and loss Today, however, we remember that the ground is even at the cross As one body we approach the altar, and kneel humbly at the rail We feel the ashes fall down our face, so dead, so dark, so stale I breathe the dust from which I'm made, remember my dying frame Yet this cross of ash, this sign of death, whispers that I shall be born again
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Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 11:25 AM UTC
LoreandLegend
Remember You Are Dust
Early Wednesday morning I rise and take a breath I feel my life course through me, but tis a life of death The sky shrouds itself in solemn mist, as if nature knows the story How death was chosen over life, and ashes over glory I sew a fragile garment to hide my shame from ages past My crude clothing of smile-coated lies...instead of the outward garb of grass Prepared for my funeral, with black, on black, on black The golden cross hung 'round my neck shows whom I'm seeking, and says, "There's no going back" I step out into a world that crumbles beneath my feet To find sanctuary for my restless soul: a place with Christ to meet A place where prayers have a scent, and holiness a sound A place where I can touch my Rock, and feel my Solid Ground I kneel down to confess my faults, all my own in a multitude Alone I whisper my many faults, yet I know I'm not in solitude For all fall short, all shall die, and all shall feel great pain and loss Today, however, we remember that the ground is even at the cross As one body we approach the altar, and kneel humbly at the rail We feel the ashes fall down our face, so dead, so dark, so stale I breathe the dust from which I'm made, remember my dying frame Yet this cross of ash, this sign of death, whispers that I shall be born again
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