Collision

She shuffles past, a slash

      of ash across her forehead,

blue wool scarf wrapped

      around her neck against the wind.

Before I get it, she’s gone. 

Ash Wednesday. Always a tap

      on the shoulder on grit-gray days

in waning winter weeks. 

It’s not my holiday but still -

      the ashes beckon to amber light

where sacred and everyday collide.

Like yellow tulips in buckets

      on the sidewalk, poised to open.