the air is so still
that the dust peacefully floats
down from the broom you're shaking outside
the kitchen window.

it's caught by the
swirls of current created because
the broom disturbs the otherwise stagnant space
in the part of the sky that's down by our feet.

have you ever thought
about how all the air is the sky?
about how what we breathe is the same here as it is
miles and miles above us?

it's odd, to think about -
we consider the sky to be empty,
dotted with clouds that scatter the rays of the sun,
but it's the space that we walk in.
it's the space that we live in.
the space that we breathe.

in that space that we breathe
is you, and you're standing there, shaking
dust into the space that we breathe - the space we depend on
waving the collection of straw as though you're not
eliminating particles from it's body
but collecting them, from
that sky.

i think this while you
shake out the broom, and look at me
making this puzzled face as if you're going
to ask me something, but
you don't.