Saturday, October 1, 2022

Dust

  

A shooting star may be but dust

Until it slows against the atmosphere

And flares itself away, and even then

In final glory only for a second,

And even then, alone, unless by

Happenstance a face is turned

Its way at just that fateful moment.

 

Your dust is real to me now

As mine I hope will be to those who

Someday

By some confluence of miracles

Will for no good reason find me

In a skyward glance and

Raise an eyebrow as they smile.

 

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