draw my finger through the dust
—until I see the shape of our faces,
—a man, a woman, a child, a person;
in dust, we are all the same,
—creatures of earth and water,
—growth and decay.
well, can dust feel this way?
—this sadness, this fear,
—this isolation, despair?
can dust hold a hand in the darkness
—and squeeze reassurance
—that another dust-person is here
—where hope draws near?
can it catch every tear?
—before they fall to the ground,
—form a pool of thick mud—
—or is it blood all around
—that makes this mourning-filled sound?

we are dust, we are,
—yet we are not dust alone;
for as we carry one another
—we create for ourselves a home
—where we are
——seen, if not safe;
——whole, if not warm;
——friends, if not free;

draw my finger through the dust
—until I see the shape of our faces,
—a man, a woman, a child, a person;
in dust, we are all the same,
—beauty, together,
—by myriad name.