Oh, What is Dust!

Oh! What is in “Dust” and, oh, why do we care?

That fine mist of gray on top of a chair-

 In the attic where all of our Christmas display,

In bags and in boxes all safe from the fray.

And the chair, with the snowman our Frosty the “man”,

Has been artfully painted on bases of tan,

Now, the mistletoe berries of wood painted red,

With the dusty green leaves they are nestled in bed.

If dust is dead skin cells, and other foul stuff,

Who cares for my dust cloth abounds, it’s enough,

To wipe all the old, so it’s new once again,

As the red berries gleam growing fresh from the glen.

I don’t dust quite often, and, “No”, I don’t dote,

On seasonal ornaments which are remote-

I think of my dust as the cotton so clean,

From white cotton dust cloths, and laundered blue jean!

So science with dust mites some microns so long,

Or, corpses, or feces a desiccant song,

We humans are strong, if from ashes or dust,

And, from Adam and Eve we’ll survive or we’ll bust!

Peter Lowell Paulson

August 21, 2013