When I Am Dust

When I am dust,
I will settle on the first green leaves of the highest branch of the tallest tree
I will quiver on the dewy tips of young daffodils, freshly sprung
I will float from the rafters of a falling-down barn, and I will be summer

When I am dust,
I will curl in the sleepy smoke of a spent flame
I will tickle the nose of a sun-toasted lion
I will dodge the hoof-and-muscle thunder of a thoroughbred on the track,
tossing in the split second between all and nothing

When I am dust,
I will drift like an old mind, random and unaccountable
I will mingle with the spray of an inbound wave, misting the footprint shore
I will wander through stone-cool Cathedrals and musty lofts, and I will be unhurried

When I am dust,
I will soar in the wake of a child on a swing,
free of time and need and expectation,
and I will warm myself in some small, glad corner of a quiet room.

Sally Bacchetta - Freelance Writer © 2005
Freelance Writer
Poetry