I burn

the fragrant wood of palo santo,

clearing,

purifying,

healing.

The burnt black tip

transforms to white ash.

The process of burning

is always slow.

Even in the face of wind,

fire

takes its time.

 

I wait

and watch

in patience,

as the red hot ember

subsides,

and white ash

remains.

Through the open window

a gentle gust of wind

rushes in.

Desiring

to end the process.

 

 

The pure white ash

break

into motes of dust.

They scatter

melt,

dissolve.

Into the blue

blue sky.

Some

remain on the desk.

White speckles in the present

of what was in the past.

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