I am made of blood and bone,
with a pinch of stardust.
I am shared ash, representing mine
who walked before me.
I am a blink of an eye in the whole of existence,
my own walk’s timing
carefully calibrated by God.
I brush the dust from their photographs,
and see myself staring back at me.
I know them well,
though we’ve never met.
Their plight, I somehow innately understand.
My ash calls out to me,
urging this apple’s return to the mother tree.
Roots...