Cliché, stars, and dust

A poem

---

Cliché, stars, and dust

Photo by Diane Picchiottino

Faith seems a funny word
for one who has been found.
I was found in the way where
I lost the matching pair and 
I lost all confidence in the matter and
I lost my place in the book.

There are nights where I
might as well get out of bed
and whisper to the Stars
because I find the pillow is cause 
to whisper to God and I’m certain 
God and Stars speak of each other.

It is cliché now to say
we are made of stars,
stardust and other
star matter but what
do I know of Stars
and what do I know of God.

I know of dust,
layers of skin cast off
and suspended around me,
this death visible only
when a star casts off
its history of light.

And I know of dust
by its disappearance,
one finger moved over
a tabletop to reveal
a line of absence
and deep wood grain beneath.

And with no stone foundation
but a foundation built only in dust
I can touch what once lived
as solid and see the way
I have crumbled like a star,
appearance, collapse, and dust.

I know of dust but it is
appearance I have faith in,
the squeak of a swing,
the call of a blackbird,
and the glimpse over my shoulder,
all that is never found.

---

Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

---

---

---