snowdrops on ash wednesday

by Jill Crainshaw


she kissed my forehead at night
when the world was drowsy and
mrs. beasley and I were snuggled
safe down deep beneath cotton-cool
sheets and moon-yellow blanket
a lone snowdrop tickling my
furrowed bedtime brow
prophet of winter’s death
a mother’s tender-fierce
twilight touch marking me

her fingers that served our
sunday in remembrance bread
brushed my forehead
weightless as a feather
floating across my face
perhaps from a house
finch escaping the hiss of
a neighbor’s big yellow tomcat
to dust you shall return

kiss mrs beasley too i demanded
and she always did but not
without a fuss since mrs beasley
is a doll and not real at all except
her berry blush lipstick left
a puckered seal and
i was reassured since i
could never see my own
forehead but mrs beasleys
smudged face held my eyes
until night danced with stardust


* * * * *

Jill Crainshaw is a poet, preacher, and teacher. Through her writing and teaching, she celebrates life’s seasons and seasonings. She and her two dogs, Bella and Penny, look for poems each day in their back yard. Sometimes Jill writes them down. Check out Jill’s most recent book, Thrive: How professionals 55 and over can get unstuck and renew their lives on her website, jillcrainshaw.com.