Poets for Science
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Dust

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Once you start dusting

there’s no end to it.

The impatient me

is thwarted.

“Dust is complicated,”

says the scientist

studying dust.

Who knew there was

a discipline called dustology?

a discipline for the most

undisciplined of matter.

“Dust collects dust,” she claims.

Another bit of useless data,

I mutter cloth in hand.

The uninvited intimacy of dust

how it settles silently,

insinuates itself

without anyone noticing

cozies up to your favourite books

nuzzles into window ledges

and picture frames.

Particles of me, my hair,

my dead skin shedding

is what shrouds mirrors,

clocks, unopened letters.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

in the end is what we become.

But perhaps these wayward specks

are messengers from afar

from exotic volcanoes and deserts

lifted by the wind

blowing through my window…

or maybe remnants

of a comet’s tail,

or bits of cosmic dust,

which we also are.

A sense of wonder

lifts the cloth in hand.