mother’s day…

mother's day

the hands
on the old clock
move so slowly
but each turn
of its gears
fills this empty room
with sound
like a grindstone
turning these bones
back into dust
to be carried
by the winds
into the loving arms
of mother earth

dust devils…

sometimes
when i walk
along these trails
there’ll be a swirl of dust
without
any appreciable breeze
i’m
i’m certain
it’s just some
thermal anomaly
but
i would swear
just for an instant
i see a face
within the pattern of dust
a set of sad eyes
peering out at me
with such a
wanting look
that i feel
a heaviness
like someone
or something
so ancient
was crying out to me
of course
i know that
couldn’t be
i mean that whole
dust to dust thing
is just a poetic
metaphor

dust to dust….

Photograph by CWMartin

when your dust
settles back
into mother earth
and the tears
of sorrow
have dried
what sounds
will be heard
above the rumble
of time passing
a mumbled mantra
chanted to convince
others of their
love for you
or the roar
of deeds
well done