Wind or dust

Is it nobler to be compared

to wind than dust?

Like the herb-scented

breeze of Provence

or the stuff that fornicates

and duplicates like bunnies

under the four poster bed?

The galactic dust from which

the universe was born?

or the cosmic wind

on whose breath

it was borne.

And when it came to rest,

god moistened it with tears,

in joy or sorrow, I don't know,

to form the primordial muck

from which microbes, amoebas,

and coelacanths coalesced

before Adam ate the apple

and we codified a thousand rules

about whom and how to fuck.

To be the powder blush

that pinks the cheek

of the happy bride,

or the wind that lifts the kite

of the laughing ten-year old

running, unafraid or targeted

across the schoolyard field?

Am I the black wind

that rolled across

the Texas Panhandle

and pushed my grandpa

to the promise of California

where the night air carries

the perfume of lemons,

oranges, and raisins, alfalfa?

After the dust that trailed the tractor

all afternoon settled on the cattle

and the old Buick where

the cats sleep and his

white clapboard home,

he rinsed his hands and face free

of that cloud and sat under

the front yard walnut tree

savoring the evening breeze

with a tall glass of sweet iced tea.