Lent

The ashes cool upon my brow,

a quiet smudge of dust and death,

whispering truths I often silence—

You are dust. You will return.

Lent arrives like a winter wind,

stripping me bare, unguarded.

It is not punishment but passage,

a clearing of the crowded heart.

I let go—not for loss, but for love.

I fast—not for emptiness, but for fullness.

I pray—not for words, but for presence.

I wait—not for answers, but for God.

Less noise, so I might hear the whisper.

Less grasping, so I might receive.

Less certainty, so I might trust

the hands that hold all things.

And as the wilderness lengthens,

as hunger sharpens into prayer,

I remember: dust was once breathed into life.

And even now, the breath remains.