God created man from the dust of the ground.
Jesus cured blindness with saliva and mud.
Dust.
It's on things not used for awhile.
Furniture. Books. Old photographs.
The love letters from me you saved.
Wrapped in a red ribbon
and stored in the bureau drawer.

Dust.
It's on the piano keys
I once enjoyed playing.
It's in the guest room
and on the shelf where I keep my trophies
and on the memory
of what I was so deserving of.

Dust.
Is it dirt or dead fairies
or the dander of swans?
A swirling universe or a star exploded?
Does it deface the silver platter of prayer
or is it the prayerbook of a saint?
Or the settled blown kisses of separated lovers?

Dust.
I can not recreate a miracle from it.
I can not wipe it away.
It is the particle not mentioned in our dna.

One thing I know.
Loving you is how I wanted to live
and even dust is roses.