It’s 4am.
I worry that my soul is ash.
Grey and powdered – the kind I shoveled out of the fireplace everyday.
But then if my soul is ash,
Perhaps it’s keeping embers warm underneath,
As when I’d scrape ash off a banked fire to find lingering red coals
Ready to ignite.
If my soul is ashen,
Then my soul also has fire.
I wonder:
What will I find when I shovel today?