Origin of Dust

The origin of dust is a mystery.

No motes float in the sunbeams

spearing through my windows,

no sandstorms rage outside my door,

yet the grey film builds silently

on my books, my shelves, my hats.

Dust is a silent vandal, covering furniture,

then houses, then entire cities.  Dust is

time made visible, permeating everything,

swallowing everything, yet as gradual

as raindrops carrying a mountain

to the sea.  We flail at it with

lemon-scented rags, but still it

comes, falling, slowly, as inevitable

as our own deaths. Even then, we don’t escape

the dust. We become one with it, and in turn,

land on some future window or door,

shouting a mute warning,

dismissed with the flick of a feather,

yet always, oh always, returning.

Heed the dust, my friends, and remember,

what we wipe away today,

is what we become tomorrow.