Motes
Dust motes pirroette in a golden beam,
A beam so sharp and razor-edged
There is no pause from dark to light
And leaves no blood nor open wound Should you cross it.
Then fans out to a golden wash
Of light and warmth
Illuminating tiny stars,
That orbit, dance and drift
Bound by the orbital mechanics
Of a madman.
Microscopic fireflies swirl and dart
At the mere hint of a breeze
Bound for some obscure destination.
In minutes, the beam has moved on
Leaving in its wake
The warm impression of its passing
And a dark and seemingly empty space
That we know is full of stars.