The Shape of Our Faces

draw my finger through the dust —until I see the shape of our faces, —a man, a woman, a child, a person; in dust, we are all the same, —creatures of earth and water, —growth and decay. well, can dust feel this way? —this sadness, this fear, —this isolation, despair? can dust hold a hand in the darkness —and squeeze reassurance —that another dust-person is here —where hope draws near? can it catch every tear? —before they fall to the ground, —form a pool of thick mud— —or is it blood all around —that makes this mourning-filled sound? we are dust, we are, —yet we are not dust alone; for as we carry one another —we create for ourselves a home —where we are ——seen, if not safe; ——whole, if not warm; ——friends, if not free; draw my finger through the dust —until I see the shape of our faces, —a man, a woman, a child, a person; in dust, we are all the same, —beauty, together, —by myriad name.