The Stirring of Ashes

Nothing was meant by it,
the hanging of museum lights long before
this season of war,
gold turned blue, worship
of men and power consuming
the holy, life as it was meant.
Blood shed for no good reason, God’s love
tossed to the bin, set afire,
the creation of ashes that never quite die.
Life, love, courage, even denied,
live, stirring in the wind.

About this poem

Mourning the people of the Ukraine. Humbled by them. Praying for them.

The image is a Russian Icon from the Museum of Russian Icons in Clinton, Mass. The church too, they tried to kill for seventy years. And yet…..

Some lessons never get learned.

Tom