11-20-2018, 06:50 AM
Motes of Dust
They neither float nor fly, they sail
weightlessly, synchronously
with their pollen neighbors,
each complex as a snowflake
but evolving, more unique
because not grown, collected
with utter asymmetry.
Lost hairs, found,
step dust mote masts
not merely raked as on a clipper ship
but optimally strung
in all directions, to each azimuth.
Ballet-balanced, waving,
room-air currents blast them on,
relentless as a gale,
yet so near to nothing
even sunlight forces them to run,
grizzled ancients drawn along
by golden fairy fingers
tangled laughing in their beards.
They neither float nor fly, they sail
weightlessly, synchronously
with their pollen neighbors,
each complex as a snowflake
but evolving, more unique
because not grown, collected
with utter asymmetry.
Lost hairs, found,
step dust mote masts
not merely raked as on a clipper ship
but optimally strung
in all directions, to each azimuth.
Ballet-balanced, waving,
room-air currents blast them on,
relentless as a gale,
yet so near to nothing
even sunlight forces them to run,
grizzled ancients drawn along
by golden fairy fingers
tangled laughing in their beards.
Non-practicing atheist