Dustfall

The sun, a sudden surgeon's beam,

cuts across the room,

and nothing is what it would seem.

On shelves, a quiet bloom

of gray, a landscape softly laid,

where light has seldom played.

Each book spine, a miniature peak,

is powdered, hushed and deep.

A forgotten photograph, meek,

has secrets it will keep

beneath a blanket, fine and slow,

a silent, shifting snow.

And in that shaft, a million motes,

a cosmic, swirling haze.

Small histories, unwritten notes,

in microscopic ways.

A world alive, unseen till now,

upon each tired brow.

The undisturbed, the patient wait,

a testament to time.

And I just watch, before it's late,

this stillness, quite sublime.

The air, a visible, heavy breath,

a quiet, lingering death.