Shrove Tuesday

      shriven

it seems like only
             yesterday
   they fit so
        comfortably
     in our palms, as
     we paraded around the
             sanctuary
   singing our glad songs (the
       teachers whispering,
     'they are not those kind
      of cymbals' when we tried
         to bang them together)
   and bringing them up to the
                 front to place
               on the Table;

now, hushed and still,
               we watch
      as a flame curls around the
           dry, crunchy, dusty
           leaves, crumbled up in
                an old pot,
   slowly reduced to ashes
               we will put on (not
           understanding why,
                      perhaps)
                  tomorrow
     and wear until the day
        our smudged lives
             are cleansed
             by the holy oil
             of your
tears.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman