Dust
Dorianne
Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor-
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes-
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor-
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes-
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
1 comment:
Hard to comment on this Dorianne Laux poem. Except for its precision. Which is ironic, since she defines here the unprecise, what is lost. I know exactly what she is talking about. It sometimes comes when I forget to record my dreams. Everything vanishes, except for a vagary of feelings. What she calls "dust." She seems to accept the dust. I personally like to clean things up or gather the dust and form a shape out of it. Fight the momentary laziness and record my dreams, if you prefer.
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