Ash Wednesday

So I've been writing and re-writing this one for like 5 years, mostly on or around Ash Wednesdays. Today I said, "Screw it," deleted all the old drafts and started over from memory.
When you know what you want to say, revising old drafts can be more work than needed.
And oh yes, today is Ash Wednesday, religiously (and thus intentionally) the most depressing time of the year. Yet, I find even the depressing vents of a poem like this still piques an enjoyable pathos in me.


Ash Wednesday

Of magazines stacked on the floor,
She picks out Time to read once more,
  And when she falls asleep in bed,
The magazine rests on her head

"Hon, it’s time I left for church, any chance you’re coming?"

"I don’t know, what I have to wear,"
Her illness is as it appears,
  It’s hard for her to leave the house,
Just as it was for her last year

After the service, I ask of the Rector,
"Could I impose on you again for few extra ashes?"
"Sure, how do we do this?"
"I’ve brought a ziplock bag with me…"

Back home I say;
"From dust you came, to dust you shall return,"
But I see as I pinch at the black ashes burnt,
  And brush aside her peppered forehead hair,
She’s been impositioned since, for she wears
  The ink mark smudge of Time up there