I'm not the world's most meticulous housekeeper. If I look at a dusty surface and feel guilt for not dusting more often, I'm missing the chance to think of it, or of myself, as a collection of protozoa, ocean salt, stardust. Made up of so many tiniest fragments of ourselves and our lives, dust is unavoidable, metaphorical, even astronomical in these poems. Put down that duster and read a while.
"The Dust Speaks" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
I am the memory
of everywhere you’ve been
and I am the memory
of what you do
and I come from places
you’ll never go.
"Dusting" by Marilyn Nelson
Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things
“The Joy of Sweeping” by Maya Stein
the settling of dust
or its disturbance,
the silence
or the song.
“View with a Grain of Sand” by Wislawa Szymborska
We call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine without a name,
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.
"Belonging" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
we are the dust, the dust that hopes,
a rising of dust, a pitch of dust
the dust that dances in the light
"Porcelain Musician in a Child's Bedroom" by Brenda Hillman
dust, the noun & verb that is
a thing & isn’t, drifted, its dreamy
abstract qualities sent
off with a cloth till nothing
said you had to or you didn’t,—
"Memo to Self Re: Meditation" by Ron Stone
Slowly learn the lesson about who you are:
dust of the earth, dust of a star.
The stuff that is you has always been here
fulfilling its purpose in losing its Self.
Until you.
"In Any Event" by Dorianne Laux
Nothing is gone forever.
If we came from dust
and will return to dust
then we can find our way
into anything.
"Stardust" by Kay Ryan
something like
sugar grains on
something like
metal, but with
none of the chill.
It’s hard to explain.
"Saltwater" by Finn Butler
Everyone who terrifies you is 65% water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust,
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