Fine Powder

Pale powder, light as breath,

a fine white film beneath.

The wood once whole, now ground,

just remnants on the floor I've found.

My broom pushes, a soft hush.

This fine stuff, in a gentle rush.

It catches light, a quiet cloud,

then settles, making dim and bowed

the dark linoleum. Scuffed boot

kicks a pile, pale, without root.