A Dust on the Wind

She sits near candles, burnt
to wicks ends, there, near out-doused
ends of cigarettes, and water-filled
jars with which to do that deed. Later, she will pour
them, somewhere past the fenceposts, ash on ash.
And from the dust, she will carry
back inside with her a fine dredging, upturned
by bare feet, clinging, where it will meet in great reunion,
its kind brought there, like this, so many times before.

Upon the floor, the silt collects until she sees and deems
it time to sweep it up, into a heap—to fling
it to the wind. It’s sent and landing, stands, freshest
of sands on the ground. Some song, sounding
as “From the dust I have come” She will
hum, and out into it she will go.

...An Excerpt...