mote...

I will never bemoan the honest dust of you

whose fractions lie dreaming in the voids 
and crevices beyond the reach of clean. 
Thick, slow blown, and mattress same 
perfectly honed ashen drifts do build to 
echo delicate alpine flowers formed slowly, at altitude, 
between rocks, and crisper than crackers, snow. 
You are the seeds of matter in cell-sized portions, 
that falling, seep into darkness. Fragments and granules roaming 
where now my daily jettisoned particles collect. 
I am the fresh snow that is tithed to the six inch gap 
betwixt floors where now you hum with the grit of all 
who ever loved and lived in this humble place. 
As your generations argue, mouse and bug stirred, 
about the colors of my walls, carpets and benches 
about the placement of my dressers, chairs and couch 
I ponder grateful the wholly inextricable nature of you 
oh marble, sequin and pin, oh coin, plate chip and clip. 
Residing in interstitial space, you are the soil of this place 
and I am a blithe bird careening joyfully through your sky. 
I will embrace the sun, moon, wind, trees and stars for you 
as you catch me in pieces while I dance here upon wooden clouds 
in the upper atmosphere of your bounteous heaven.