dust to dust

for he knows how we are formed,

he remembers that we are dust

-Psalm 103:14

Don’t pity him and he

won’t pity you.

Glen felt adequately compensated for his work, pay no mind.

When sweeping the long boards of the downtown rehearsal studio

one winter afternoon, the  

sun mingled sideways with the

sweet smell of sweat still lingering from petite

feet calloused by movements of grace.

Humming to himself (he kept time with the

plumbing, drumming with scalded water), as the hiss of

more mist softened the air, the

score of next Friday’s musical (as

played by Iris, the pianist, his wife who

stayed by his side those many drinking days).

This time of day was his favorite. In retirement, he would

miss this vision of countless particles

swirling in the air, caught by the amber light, whose fingers,

curling over the curved earth, stirred all the frenzied

dust, now

luminous,

beautified and

beatified.

dust to dust

a poem by troy cady