This stark primordial dust fresh imposed
between my eyes this February day
fades swiftly and is gone,
no necessity to rub or scrub,
no enduring sign or stain remains
to mar my normal sunny outlook.
Still it shadows all that lies below
casts a somber darkness far across the days
and weeks, this penitential season,
recalls – if I permit – a heritage of failure
and defeat, a legacy of regular denial,
a bleak inheritance can only be redeemed
in broken bread, wine freely poured,
gentle words beyond a garden tomb.
