Blog Your Blessings Sunday: Dust

I have watched it dance
when air is white with humidity
Whose magic lifts the lid of this gleaming glove box
And travels the tributaries of the lives of the dead
Who left behind:
A color postcard of Atlantic Street, Stamford, 1913;
A mother-of-pearl souvenir coin purse, 1913;
A red satin-lined leather roll-up sewing kit, very old;
A book of poems by an obscure Cape Codder, 1943;
And a "pantaloon doll," hand-stitched, 1966--
A gift for me from my great-grandmother, who owned this box in 1966.
These tributaries lead to warm, still pools above which dances
The dust from which these thing come, the dust from which I come,
The dust from which all things come,
In the light that enlivens everything.
I breathe in the dust and so take in this legacy:
The plain truth that we are dust and water and light
Passing quickly through a dream.