• By T.M. Moore

Dust


My soul clings to the dust. Ps. 119.25

How like the dust my soul can be. I see it sometimes, dazed and inattentive in a ray of light, or settled in a thin coat on a table, waiting languidly to be wiped off. It falls in easily with just the slightest breeze or passing wind, and drifts off nowhere, much to my chagrin. Such aimless, listless seasons trouble me.

Perhaps it’s true that I am merely dust. But even dust has purpose, and I trust that, in my more devoted moments, when I’m neither drifting, dazed, nor lolling, then I’ll shimmer in the light, and lend my weight, though slight, to tip the scales for something great.

T.M. Moore’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals, and he has published five volumes of verse through his ministry’s imprint, Waxed Tablet Publications. He is Principal of The Fellowship of Ailbe, he and his wife, Susie, reside in Essex Junction, VT.

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