From Dust
You are
formed from a gust of wind
swirled into a pillar and bended
into your shape; you are
a moving thing of nature
now frozen
now burning in the crook of my elbow—
always present,
like a steady breeze; your face
and the skin beneath my fingers
are
from dust.
You are
particles, and a ghost;
emptiness, and the weight on my chest;
you block the sun on my right-hand side
and wipe strands of hair
from my sweat-soaked forehead; you are
rays of light and threads of silk; you are
the scent on my pillow and the
blood between my teeth; you are
alive and somehow made
from dust.
And you are
dust cherished by dust;
these eyes that behold you
dream of you in sleep.
Quiet though our footsteps be,
they echo, faintly, to eternity;
we dissolve, but not apart;
swept by the wind, into a mist
from dust.
