I would write a poem about dust,

The dry clay summer dust

That runs through your fingers like silk,

But adheres to the touch-

A clap of hands sends a cloud

Swirling in sunlight

And settling to mute

The color of grass and weeds and brittle leaves

Scattered about.

I would write a poem about dust

Because the scar on my heart remains

And aches each day when I think of you.

Memories dissolve down before the glare,

Leaving empty air as still as death,

And words once said

Are as silent as sand.

For a young girl

Dust and sand become

A way to create,

A mound becomes a cake- rocks and twigs, the candles,

A smooth spot, a place to draw.

All can be managed here,

And sand can be easily carried away,

In the bottom of the pockets,

Or in the shoes removed for emptying.

I would pray she dreams always

Of warm sand and shovels and pails.