Golden Dust

Walking past the old repair shop,

door propped open,

and the air changed.

Sweet and dry,

a kind of warm sugar,

mixed with the sharp tang

of cut pine.

The sun hit the window,

and there it was,

a fine, golden film

coating the glass,

shimmering a bit.

It looked like captured light,

or the ghost of a thousand trees,

still giving off their scent.

Like work, or creation,

left hanging in the air.