A holy fool once told me
The dust from the floor of that temple…
That small wooden church, where we all just stood
Transfigured by proximity
To a mystery, our gaze affixed.
Where we prayed.
Warmed by a blaze uncreated
The dust of that floor, those ashes,
Those specks of eternity
Birthed into Sunday morning.
The dirt we brought in on prodigal feet,
After we fed the pigs,
After we forgot who we are.
The dust that fell from the rafters of our thoughts
And humbled by the presence of the One who contains all thought.
That dust.
Has become all flame in the beams of the eastern light
That dust on the floor, from the ceiling,
From our boots, our pigs, the paths
That dust isn’t dust anymore.
We are no longer who we are,
In the presence of that light.
We are who we are to become.