Dust begins to settle,
Tiny motes moving
In the slanting beams, glittering
The briefest of
Engoldenings as they
Descend, circumscribing each

Other's particle as they
Fall slowly to 
Powder the floor, soften its
Boards and let 
Silence in their place
Caress the air.

Nothing moves in here
And there is nothing more than
This place contains -
There are no footprints to
Disturb the dust, all sits at its 
Ease, still and peaceful. 

My strength drifts, ebbs and
Flows with the tiny
Tentative airs brushing under
The door.  I think myself here, I 
Must become tangible, real like this
Crafted piece of wood - solid

To the hand.  Such insubstantiality
Cannot survive.  I must coalesce into
Rich rednesses, polished as
Wood.  I must become a
Shape, a piece, something 
In emergence.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem