Ash Wednesday

Curl the fingers to brush back bangs

Consider the vast, bald, blank canvass

The tiny head in the crook of daddy's arm

The elder, furrowed and somewhat dry

The youth, oily and acned

The head of shame, bowed but present

The face of pride, confident that others are more mortal

The heads not there

The heads not in the game

The eyes caught emotional and weeping

The eyes averting, too much soul to bear

The ashes, crumbled, crumbling

Caught under finger nails and creased into flesh

Flickering over noses

Or smeared in too much pressed olive oil

The small bowl

The ingredients back in the sacristy

Ashes of last year's palms

Moving along the altar rail, there I am

speaking again and again

To child and friend and lover and foe

Remember you are dust

To dust you shall return

The, simple stark beauty of imposing ash

is writing them on all those foreheads, 

from heads at death's door, 

to heads recently emerged from the womb. 

The range and texture of our mortality is a powerful, tangible thing.