My dust knows I will come for it
to glide my dampened cloth over
cluttered table, straight back chairs
and book lined shelves.
Careful not to persuade a wind
I linger through each room,
wiping new the summer souvenirs
of distant lands and rubbing clear
the framed smiles of cherished friends.
With twisted and tired rag I finish
my way toward a bedroom mirror,
which waits more patiently,
untouched now for several seasons.
Here the many layers have
softened my reflection and
I have grown fond of this
subtle deception.
But today I pause to run
my finger through the days.
I trace my oval face, circle eyes,
smudge line for narrow lips
then draw a halo
above my head and smile.
Slowly,
I wipe the lie away
to let my dust begin again.
KIM KONOPKA