My hands are dirty from smearing ashes on people’s foreheads.
My eyes sting from wiping them with ashen fingers.
My nose tickles from the ash I’ve breathed in.
From dust you have come.
To dust you shall return.
In the meantime
there is grace.
Grace that looks a lot like a smudged cross.
Like sooty fingerprints on everything I touch.
Thanks be . . .