Dust

First an ominous wall
of sprawling clouds,
almost cinder-colored,

and then a slim door
the sun darts through
to lean downward.

I interrupt my dusting
to consider a rhombus
of light slanting indoors

and watch the sun-lit air
spangle with tiny flecks
that flutter and shift

as they float down
(though a few seem bent
on defying gravity).

Some might say the dust,
that collects on counters
and floors, is ash

from far-flung planets,
residue that’s older
and finer than soil.

These sediments strike me
as being carefree creatures,
anonymous and unhurried,

urging me to waste more
time diligently watching dust
than to dwell on its past.

---

Lenny Lianne is the author of four full-length books of poetry, most recently The ABCs of Memory (ScriptWorks Press). She holds a MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from George Mason University and has taught numerous workshops on both coasts. She lives in Peoria, AZ with her husband.