Dust.
Tutting, I harry it
from windowsill and threshold
with rag and broom.
Showering, I sluice it
from my summer feet
in a warm flurry of lather.
Grimacing, I empty the vacuum
of dust that (they say)
is composed of my own
skin and fibres
of the clothes that cover
my nakedness.
No, no, I do not know
that I am dust.
But on enchanted afternoons,
I am mesmerised by motes,
shoaling in the sunbeams,
gliding through my windows.
Little galaxies, these heavenly spheres
sing heavenly songs:
“Be good creatures, now”, they counsel.
“Remember, remember that you are also dust,
dignified, as we, by the Light of His Countenance,
glowing in His reflected Glory, as if you also were a star.
Rejoice, rejoice! What beloved dust you are!”
