The young can not write about dust.
They know only it accumulations
on floors, shelves, ***** panes.
Only the old know its subtle contours,
the futility that comes with just moving it around.
They know that the sun and stars are dust,
schools of ash that follow all life’s currents and
that blossom the new fields under Grandfather Mountain.
They bend with the promise of the long, wavering grasses,
and flowers with their variegated indigos,
everything pursuing joyously their singular futures,
swearing testimony to the power of dust’s bounty.
