You catch dancing particles of dust
In your hand, and call them magic
Because they disappear when you open it again
And maybe there is a little magic there
Hidden in the fibers of my carpet
But dust settles and is swept away
It cannot dance forever
The sun won’t stream soft and warm
Through my bedroom window every morning
But I’m okay with slate grey skies
With the ticking of the rain on my window
This too is important, somehow.