Dust

Poem by ambiguous architect

Sunlight sifts the seasons; grit of pain turns, patiently into a nacreous pearl.

Looking, we meet the world’s selvage, its sutura lucid with wear,

begin where the floor remembers your footsteps,

where the Night tumbles, the living air wisps to the hollow,

an echo answers, a quiet naming of what remains.

Winter’s breath, anima ripe with ancestry, fluent in the unwritten.

Hand to stone, skin to earth, hear the sonorous hush of matter,

where endings rehearse their bows to the returning tide.

Cast a stone; let it thud and settle in the dust of the moon, anticipation salts the soil, witnessing a thousand eyes shed a thousand tears.

Draw close, lend warmth until you remember the first fire.

What comes to you is already known to this ground,a palimpsestum of junctions and choice, every line shared, sine nomine. Heavy, in situ: Telos.

It existed before memory.