just dust

a poem

Sometimes, the best practice for building habits include archive re-releases. As I practice sitting at the desk and wringing out words from somewhere inside, I find that older pieces of mine are —maybe— a bit lovelier than I remembered and would do just fine.

This poem was composed not originally as a confrontation with mortality, but an acknowledgement that I simply don’t dust. My grandmother and mother are horrified. My family doth sneeze. But a few years ago, I stared at the dust and suddenly thought, ‘I, too, am but dust…’ and thus the full poem started coming to life.

It seems apropos for Lent, when we hold the tension of living before the face of God (Coram Deo) and remembering our death (Memento Mori).

i stare at floating specks of dust and
they sparkle in the afternoon sun but it is
still just dirt and dust

and the crackles and pops of
forty-three year old knees groan that
i too am a bit of dust - but unlike
what is collecting on my table,
i am destined for glory

for beauty from every ash heap
for strength from every weakness
for joy from every crushed dream

and the one who dug his hands into dirt and ribs
to make whole persons
in his image
is hovering over me even now -
over my dust with his glory -
and behold, he is making all things new

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I’m glad you’re here,

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