Ashes, ashes

I got my ashes on my hand instead of my forehead tonight. I thought I could see them better there, but the minute I put my hands in my pockets they mostly rubbed off. Except that I have a scratch on my hand, and the ashes stuck to the small scab. Which sort of fits. The dirt and the imperfection.

And now, a poem for Ash Wednesday.

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn.  Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass.  Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down.  Let the shed
go black inside.  Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid.  God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

--Jane Kenyon from Let Evening Come (1990)