Dust You Are

The Book of Ash:

Near the end of my searching

               I came to a door.

 

Entering, I found the story

               of her life, laid out like a cake

 

on an ebony table, as if waiting there

               for the lost bride—pages flat

 

and placid, blank as a lake

               asleep in winter. Hoping

 

for answers, some knowledge of her,

               perhaps—I’m not sure what—

 

I placed my palm upon the surface.

 

It sank through and disappeared

               beneath a cloud of snowy powder.

Mari L'Esperance.