Each morning they accumulate in the belly of my stove, grey, giving off little smoke or heat, hiding the small, hot coals that I use to start anew. Each morning I kneel, peer in, shovel out their soft bodies, spill them into the waiting pail. They are all that remains of the past, of the hard logs that I carried in, of the trees once standing in the stand before the growl of the chain saw and the black 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, while I lay in 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, black clumps among them. Pieces that never finished burning, that leave dark marks when you lift them in your hands. Cafe Review Spring 2017
Poems by Judy Kaber