Dust

What might the dust be 'neath these feet
which carry me 'long Life's path? Nourishing
soil from a victory garden lovingly tended
during the World's last Great War, or maybe
an eternal comet's scraps drifted down when
last it streaked an ancient night sky?

Could you be, O dust, dregs of a hole dug
two millenia ago in which a wooden cross sat
waiting for its single occupant?

Simple dust at wind's mercy; blown toward
the heavens at Trinity, patted into a child's
lovingly made mud pie, trodden from rainy jungle
and sun-fried desert to permafrosted tundra.

Then, amid tears, clutched in hand saddened by
loss, a bit of you is tossed down to bid 'bye
on coffin's lid. Shovels full join you, cover you,
bury you.

Slumber for a time, O dust.... you will
return.