I’ve gathered dust from untold things,
that was no doubt accumulated,
and likewise passed on to me.
Brushed off from overcoats;
and shook free from shoes;
wrought loose from the palms of dirty hands;
and combed out from lengths of matted hair.
Discarded substances from things,
that one day once were important enough to share.
Rather than brush it all aside,
I’ve stored it in little reused jars,
with tight caps to seal out the air;
clear glass bottles that let my eyes peer in.
Until one day in not too distant times,
I will try to recall where it all came from,
rich dirt, barren clay, and simple sand,
to measure the distance between
where I’ve come and where I’ve gone;
and who I’ve seen and who I’ve missed;
and where I wasn’t welcome and where I belong.
Oh, the revelation of the layers of so many worn roads,
shaken loose from time to time,
only to settle again, captured in these little jars.
I wonder what it would be like when I open them,
and let those particles Loose again,
upon the room which is my life.
Would they settle within and upon,
the contents wherein I reside?
Or, would they dissolve and blow away.
No. I couldn’t really say.
For it is but what’s left of the roads I’ve traveled,
not the life I live today.