Dust

I find it easier to collect dust 
than move it around from 
feathery place to place.

Dust is history. It holds 
the flavors of myself.
Dust contains my words.

It sits on my mantle adding 
more specks every year,
life upon life on death.

I see God in its ashes—
He is dust and 
Dust is everything

It swirls in endless ribbons 
over the once white road
in the dominating wind-

settling on the furniture
even over the dust covers 
that are our grieving ghosts—

settling on the headstone
of my mother, the urn 
that holds my father’s ashes—

dusting the trees, animals,
over all our boundaries, the 
terrible grandeur of existence.