Ash and Rain

The days of rain have me thinking about seasons of life. A poem that has been comforting to me in times of struggle is by Masahide. (Thank you! Lauralee Farrar)

"Barn's burnt down
now---
I can see the moon."

My mind swells with imagery...

Prized possession, gone. Livelyhood taken. Everything I put my future in, up in smoke.
The ash flickers in my face; I brush it away like gnats. The hot wind stinks up my hair and discolors my garb.
But mostly, ash. Light as a feather, dirty as addiction, and like cinnamon ~ impossible to clean up.

Then, it rains. And rains. And rains. The ash turns to mud. Thick, gray, quicksand mud and it, lava-like, buries everything it touches as it creeps my way.

I hold my hood on - my raincoat is too big so I get wet anyway. The wind rips it from my back, an open parachute in the Chicago.
My feet are stone in the murky tide. I'm going to die... no, really. I'm going to die.

The rain stops. Sky clears, no longer rancid with wood/hay/manure smoke or dirty with haze. And I, like Shadrach, stand. I am unwounded but quite scarred. I am naked and clean and wet. I am not cold.

I am free to begin again.

I see something in the ash! Green. Ah.