We are the dust that sings.
—Art Goodtimes
She has learned not to trust the mirror.
When she is not near it, she’s beautiful.
Here, in firelight, she knows herself
as one of many stems in an enormous
bouquet, all of them lovely. And in moonlight,
she shines along with the rest of the shining world.
And in the longest night, she is the dust
that dances, dust that sings, dust that knows beauty
everywhere it looks, inside, outside.