The Moya View


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.





One response to “Dust”

  1. caroline46 Avatar

    I will be more thoughtful and meditative when ridding my furniture of dust _:)

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