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.
Dorianne Laux, “Dust” from What We Carry.
Copyright ©
1994 by Dorianne Laux
