Tuesday Morning

This is the rhythm that never ends.

Each foot forward is progress;

Is Discovery

Of the topic we shan’t ever write of,

Architects of snappy culture.

Scrutinizers of syllables

Or so I've been told by some

And myself

(and disregarded many a time might I add).

I have watched sails burn in furious stride

And even burned my own in name of it.

(a few times in fact)

Holding ashes, I think we all contemplate

The cinders that stain our palms

That we so choose to inhale,

Harvesting cancer in our breath.

Gratefully, the ashes have cooled and settled

I walk with them in small jars,

Contained and appropriately labeled,

So not to jumble the contents

Or let it spill upon me and others

As I walk to the rhythm.

It is remarkably paced.

It is constant;

A heartbeat in meditation.