By T.M Moore

My soul clings to the dust. Ps. 119.25

How like the dust my soul can be. I see
it sometimes, dazed and inattentive in
a ray of light, or settled in a thin
coat on a table, waiting languidly
to be wiped off. It falls in easily
with just the slightest breeze or passing wind,
and drifts off nowhere, much to my chagrin.
Such aimless, listless seasons trouble me.

Perhaps it’s true that I am merely dust.
But even dust has purpose, and I trust
that, in my more devoted moments, when
I’m neither drifting, dazed, nor lolling, then
I’ll shimmer in the light, and lend my weight,
though slight, to tip the scales for something great.

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