So we’re not dead yet, are we? I don’t know about you, but there seems be a kind of death when you’re not writing. Paraphrase that. Not writing seems to be a kind of death. I write therefore I am? Are you smelling ash? As if on cue, I am. Anyway why not hold that thought (or smell) and write a poem about death. It’s something that you hold close to your heart, I’d bet. Here’s how one poet wrote about ash:
“The house and yard dressed in a skin of ash.
It was raining embers, the night air thronged
with giddy petals that swirled
on the updraft, flared
to incandescence before curling into papery
–Boey Kim Cheng, “Clear Brightness”
If not for death, we’d not be poets. Probably.