The dust blows
south, east, anywhere
but here
where my feet
are planted,

shadows slanted
from the setting
sun fleeing —

Don’t let me
blow away now
that the motion
is made.
I’m only afraid.

The pieces fall,
scatter — and
the breeze is
blowing away
from me.

It is You
who tumbled
the tumbleweed.

Where everything is
unknown — and dust,
You know me.

Written July 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from http://www.adventure-journal.com.


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