From the Ashes

In these days after death reminds me of who I am,
I touch the wounds I carry on my skin,
in my belly, all around my heart,
marveling at the raised edges
and the marks that do not diminish me
but, rather, bring me strength.
 
In the northern places
sacred ground is frozen,
waiting quietly for now,
for spring to open up
so that I might return
the remains of love
into the Earth’s aching chest.
 
If I am not awake in this waiting,
water might swallow me up
like so many stormy days
stuck behind this lifetime of sorrow.
 
But my eyes are not closed
as I gather the clever kindling I will need
while I hold the light of this flame to the tinder
and gently blow on the shavings of magnificent oak
that will become a radiant fire,
and then nothing
but remains
that look just like anyone else
and ashes.