It shone pure white, the spotless dress
(without a mark of age or ash)
that hung from his calloused hands
as if it had never been worn.
The darkening of the embers
in reverse, springing from the street.
I had sworn to never walk this street,
to put away my black and dress
in bright blues to cool the embers.
But there he was: no hint of ash
to mar his eyes, his collars worn
and grayed with time. And then his hands,
fingers twisted and unknown. Hands
that knew the rhythm of the street,
knew by the city's edges, worn
down into nubs, when a smart-dressed
man would wander untouched by ash
down into the waiting embers —
he knows. Oh yes. He remembers
my wringing fingers, my cold hands
and feet, flame dying into ash
even as he watched. The gray street
mocks my defiant blues. Should my dress
be tattered like his rags, and worn
by gutters? Why didn't he warn
me before he rose from embers
to haunt my waking steps? The dress
doesn't warm. I raise trembling hands,
try to banish him from the street,
from my mind. Banish him like ash.
But he doesn't scatter like ash,
or fade out like a dream. His worn
and weathered face reflects the street,
and he speaks then, stirring embers
with his voice. "I see that your hands
have not grown warm, and your dress
is made of ash. You must dress
in biting wool to warn your hands
which grasp at embers on the street."