in my polkadot life, there is always more childhood.
i fill my shoes with blueberries. wear the straw hat.
i am eight-years-old again & it is a cleaning afternoon.
my mother is handing me the feather duster. i observe how
every corner of the kitchen gathers dust of all pigments:
grey & blue & amber & saw-dust beige.
congregations above the fridge & along the fire place.
dust in the corners & dust on the ceiling fans.
i think of the church hymn line, "remember you are dust
& to dust you shall return." the words used hollow me
but seeing all the dust i feel plentiful. if i really were dust,
i would be tended. gathered. taken. then, arrive again.