Ash on an old man’s sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house—
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.
Ash on the Thurifer's sleeve
Terebinth, Frankincense, and myrrh
A cloud of fragrant mystery
Marks the beginning of the mass
A journey toward Bethlehem and beyond
Eventually to Jerusalem and death
But in this season we wait and watch
For God becoming as one of us.
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