Wooden Woman wonders about dust. Mountains crumble into rocks; water tears rock into gravel; gravel’s washed and worn down to dirt; dirt’s pulverized to powdery dust, fine enough to be flour.
The ground. Aptly named.
Detritus of stars…
…shavings of sweaters and skin.
Everything is dust.
Life depends on dust.
Raindrops form around lofted particles of dust. Snow too.
Dust rain, Dust snow, Dust bunny.
One time Wooden Woman lived in the country down a good mile of dirt road. Not many washboards or ruts, she could blitz down that dirt road at a pretty good pace. One morning she thought to put on lip-gloss while glancing in the rear view mirror. A glimpse of Beauty and without warning cataclysmic careening off the road, hucking through a barbed wire fence, the astounded children pleading from the back seat, why did you do that?!?! Wooden Woman couldn’t wait for the dust to settle to answer; she lurched back home as best she could before the tire went flat...
Her neighbor on that road more than once stormed out of his house red faced and hollering, gesturing wildly to flag her down. Blue eyes raging he'd leaned in the car window, enunciating each syllable as if she was both deaf and......well......slow........ LADY. YOU. HAVE. TO. SLOW. DOWN. LOOK. AT. THE. DUST. (More gesturing) DUUUSSST.
Static electricity builds up between airborne dust and the ground during a dust storm. It can cause blue flames to leap from barbed wire fences. Well-wishers shaking hands might generate a spark that could knock them both to the ground. Really.
Dust can be dangerous.
Mostly Wooden Woman thinks anything to do with dust chaps her hands.
The hand is a symbol for the whole self. With hands we give and take; repel and grab hold. Fold your hands and pray; raise them high in the surrendered pose of worship; and on the way home shake your fist (or worse) at another driver.
Chapped hands: just a little reminder of the dangers of our dusty origin.
The Lord God formed man out of the dust and breathed life into him.
So much is unexplained.
There in the bottom of every puzzle box lays that ubiquitous grey dust.
So if tears are the prayers of the saints then dust is perhaps the heart.
Black blizzards to crystalline snowflakes
the heart of man is dust.
“God instituted prayer to communicate to creatures the dignity of causality.”