Dustfall

Golden motes in a dusty beam,

thick air thick with pine’s sharp scent.

Boots stir a soft, dry cloud that clings,

a blanket caught on ragged cement.

A pile upended, the grain spills loose,

tiny stars settle in the cracks.

The smell of resin, raw and sweet,

sticks like old sweat at my back.

Sun slices sharp through grimy glass,

cuts the dust into lazy flights.

A workshop breathing in quiet grit,

wrapped tight in fading, yellowed light.