Gold and silver particles
drift in sunlit streams, slowly
settle. Until scattered by
shuffling feet into the air
or swept into motion
by swipes of the hand
to temporarily land
once more, to see and hear.
What tantrums, temporal
moments motes might relate
as they shift to shoulders,
onto couches unaware,
or hair and into corners;
witness to all we do
from dust above the door.
M. Pennington
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