Dust

The dust on my face tells me I'm broken;
it tells me I'm dying.
The soft chalky smudge
burns with truth,
sticks to my face
like we're stuck on this earth.

Look up at the woman
who makes all the marks,
staining foreheads with word of our
gathering death.
Watch her closely, in wonder,
as her daughter draws near.
How can you mark your own daughter
with death?
And yet, a smile, deep joy
as soft sooty fingers blacken smooth skin.

Glimpse the deep well in her smile.
Plunge in.
Bathe in the warm light of hope.
Let it speak to you
truth
deeper
than the burning smudge on your face.

The waters whisper
"All men are like grass."
"Lift your eyes."

Her smile's not just a well,
but a spring,
bubbling up life
that persists after death.

Undaunted by dust,
she rests in smallness,
in wonder, in trust.