Emptying the Ashes
by Judy Kaber
Each morning they accumulate
in the belly of my stove, grey,
giving off little smoke or heat,
hiding the small, hot coals
that I will use to start anew.
Each morning I kneel, peer in,
shovel out their soft bodies,
spill them into the waiting pail.
They are light, all that remains
of the past, of the hard logs
that I carried in, of the trees
once standing in the silver copse,
before the growl of the chain saw
and the groaning truck that pulled
them clear. I think about my children
as I carry the pail to the ditch
to spill out the ashes, their toys,
the way they made castles from clay,
the role playing card games, the nights
up late in their rooms, while I lay in my bed
trying to sleep. I hardly ever see them
now, though I still have boxes labeled
with their names on the shelves.
The ashes cascade down, dark clumps
among them. Pieces that never
finished burning, that leave dark marks
when you lift them in your hands.