Dust

A white shadow moves down the old stairs and waits

So quietly I barely feel it there unless I move too close

And am drawn to remember some faint shade of a familiar face.

What are years to you? Ah, you understand and share my tears.

You must have known the warmth of other hands and the

Warmth of lips,

And the sun spinning a spring morning damp and waiting —

Yes. You see I cannot come, I have my cleaning,

And some last things to find — before.

Our childhood tears have wandered still

Before our years and waited till

We meet them now in other fears.

The shadow there upon the mirror —

I’ve moved the curtain where it hid the sun

But the shadow stays and I see no one

Behind or before, or my own face.

Ah, wait till I remember where I knew you —

And I can dare to go to sleep.

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