Memories of Ash

By Stephanie Froebel

The days pass by like a burning page

curling at the edges

as flames destroy any ounce

of physicality except for a

single piece of ash

that is memory.

So much is lost in the transfer of heat.

Little is gained but

the burn of flames and

that small piece of ash that

is ever so easily lost.

And if that frail sliver of

what once was is lost,

then we are left

with a sense of peculiarity

as to how we have aged thus far

with little recollection

of the aging.

And so we burn

again, each time the sun rises

and we pile our ash

into a mound each day.

Until one gust of wind blows by,

and we are left with nothing;

again.