Dust to Dust

Asectic by Pierre Alain D. ©
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We tend to forget
we’ve sprung from the soil.
When our time is up,
we’ll return to it.
We must keep our humility.
Our humanity intact.
The earth can still reject us,
eject us from its sphere.
Don’t tempt it.




Richard Misrach, ‘Clearing Storm Near Kingman,’ 1985, Robert Mann Gallery



A vast open space.

Open to the sky.

Coated in dust and mud.

Rearranged by sand storms.

Washed by the rain.

We wait for help.

For the weather.

For settlers.

For investors.

We wait.


The smell of a bookstore.
The enticing aroma.
It draws me inside.
Pulling me into its embrace.

Shelf after shelf of books.
Books that have one purpose.
To keep their words safe.
For someone, like me, to enjoy.

Sunlight streams in.
Highlighting the dust mites in the air.
I reach for a book.
Is this the best one for me?

Pages are rustling in the next aisle.
Other people are lost in their books.
Maybe I don’t need to pick just one.
Endless possibilities. 

History, mystery, cooking,
Oh my!
What to choose?
Do I need to choose?

I feel like skipping down the block.
I leave the store with bags of books.
Eager to read them.
Eager to learn for them.
Life is good today.


The house stands

alone and deserted,

dark and forlorn.

The moon casts its glow

through the tall windows.

Shadows fall on the

shiny wood floors.

Mice scurry from sight.

Dust mites fly through the air.

The wind whistles through

the cavernous rooms.

Rooms that had once held people,

furniture, and signs of life.

Signs of laughter and hope.

Now the house sits alone and dark.

What could have brought it

to such an end?

Has death entered this house?

Bringing with it sickness and sorrows.

Or has the family simply moved away?

A house holds secrets,

close to its heart.

Secrets that lie buried

beneath its floors

and foundations.

Be careful where you dig.

You might not like

what you find.


To be alone.

Under a tree.

In a garden.

No people.

No sounds.

Only the birds chirping.

The smell of the grass.

The heat of the sun.

What is that sound?

Oh, the wind rustling the leaves.

How beautiful.

How relaxing.

How perfect.

Oh no.

I hear more sounds.

It’s turning dark.

The sun has retreated.

Someone is coming.

I can’t see who it is.

It can’t be.

I’m dust in the wind.



Sunset in Everglades National Park, Florida

The test of time.

We all succumb to it.

It takes its victims.

No one is safe.


Dry up.

Turn to dust.

And life goes on.

Until the next victims

bite the dust.

And so it goes.

On and on.

In waves.

In cycles.

In perpetuity.

No reason to fight it.

Accept it.


The house sits empty.

Deserted for years.

Dust its sole visitor.

The grand piano waits for a voice.

Someone to play its keys.

One last song before

it’s too late.

Before its beauty is lost.

Before it joins the dust.

Come play me.


The creepy old house holds dark shadows<br /> within its crumbling walls.<br /> Dusty furniture sits waiting for new owners.<br /> Old draperies cover the drafty windows,<br /> desperate to keep the bitter cold out.<br /> Who will want this house?<br /> A house full of old memories and old ghosts.<br /> Let’s go in and check it out.<br /> Maybe these people had good memories<br /> and fun times.

The creepy old house holds dark shadows

within its crumbling walls.

Dusty furniture sits waiting for new owners.

Old draperies cover the drafty windows,

desperate to keep the bitter cold out.

Who will want this house?

A house full of old memories and old ghosts.

Let’s go in and check it out.

Maybe these people had good memories

and fun times.