Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
Ashes. I scatter them. They slip away from cold-numbed finger tips. It is winter. Nothing grows in winterādoes it? Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. But the kitchen fire warms my hands. Its ashes make nutritious things grow. We are ashes; our lives seem sometimes to slip through our fingers. We are also formed from good, dark hummusāthe earth. We are dust. Placed in Godās garden āto till it and toā¦











