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,
of 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 his old Buick
where the cats sleep, and on
his white board and batten house.
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.
