Lent

We’re off again

with forehead freshly smeared

and spirit seared/ anew by

memories of dust, rumors of all

or nothing up ahead.

These frigid days and weeks lean

inward, huddling for warmth, and

disciplines attempt in vain

to shape them toward value, meaning,

promise. Warmth will, of course,

return bearing its customary,

temporary blossoming.

But all remains a stay of execution

till the stone is rolled, those sentries flee,

            and startled women run with aching news. 

J Barrie Shepherd