The Ash and The Dawn

​He sits by the hearth. The fire long dead, was a monument of gray ash, once blazing in red.

His eyes are rimmed with rings of a sleepless watch, heavy with the weight being taught.

 Of failures tallied and the gnawing fear, that he is nothing more than a spark destined to leave here.

​She steps from her room, where the floor is bare, save for a thin mattress and a wooden cross there.

She too rubs her eyes with a tad of fear. Nor has she slept, but her eyes are clear.

She has spent the night storm-filled nights carrying his name. Sending it to the feet of the One who never betrays.

​She does not wait for him to look up. She does not ask if he wants to hear.

She simply walks into his shadow and begins the work He has put for her here.