"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life"
Pablo Picasso
some days I agree with Picasso
on others with the other Pablo:
the curve of the horizon is as sweet
as the hip of the beloved
nevertheless
dust motes dance a fecund formless throng
a murmuration of particles without song
their whispering silences are a subtle secret sound
as they converge a tentative tactile crowd
a granular ghostly presence palpable yet unseen
a presence that unsettles yet beguiles the seen
they accumulate a slow grey snow
a pall of forgetfulness that veils the floor below
a monument to memory and to forgetting's sway
a dust-kissed relic of a moment's fleeting stay
so let me contemplate this dust this mundane thing
this ubiquitous & omnipresent whispering
this dust that is and is not and yet remains
a symbol of our ephemeral sun-kissed games