Dust: a love poem

Ash Wednesday, 02.17.21

“In any instant the sacred may wipe you with its finger. In any instant the bush may flare, your feet may rise, or you may see a bunch of souls in trees.”
— Annie Dillard, For The Time Being

We are told today to remember, and wisely so: You are dust,
and unto dust you will return. This as we dip a finger into oil and ash,

marking ourselves mortal, meaning: there is a bit of the Earth in us
from our first gasp, and it never leaves us, never stops drawing us home.

Meaning: much as we love to fancy ourselves at the control panel,
we are more like passengers in the way back.

Just look: this entire year stitched to a microbe, quietly saying
again and again: the more we try to deny and insist and dominate,

in the constant fight, strangely, how much less free we become.

Knowing we are dust is meant to keep us wide awake and humble,
as in: humus: to bend the knee, to be grounded, at home in the earth,

to be the kind of soil that can grow good things because it understands
the sweet, dark intimacy between nourishment and decay.