Dust by Danusha Laméris

It covers everything, fine powder,

the earth’s gold breath falling softly

on the dark wood dresser, blue ceramic bowls, 

picture frames on the wall. It wafts up

from canyons, carried on the wind,

on the wings of birds, in the rough fur of animals

as they rise from the ground. Sometimes it’s copper,

sometimes dark as ink. In great storms,

it even crosses the sea. Once,

when my grandmother was a girl,

a strong gale lifted red dust from Africa

and took it thousands of miles away

to the Caribbean where people swept it

from their doorsteps, kept it in small jars,

reminder of that other home.

Gandhi said, “The seeker after truth

should be humbler than the dust.”

Wherever we go, it follows.

I take a damp cloth, swipe the windowsills,

the lamp’s taut shade, run a finger

over the dining room table.

And still, it returns, settling in the gaps

between floorboards, gilding the edges

of unread books. What could be more loyal, 

more lonely, and unsung?

Dust

I confess to being annoyed or just indifferent to the ever-present dust in my house, so it is such a pleasure to read Laméris’s poem which offers a whole new perspective. Her description of this fine powder as the earth’s gold breath falling softly on the everyday household objects gives me pause – gold breath, mmmm. Dust not only falls down but wafts up from canyons, carried by wind, birds, animals.

It can be copper-coloured, ink-dark, even red dust from Africa blown across the ocean to reach the islands of the Caribbean. This wine-coloured dust is swept up, saved, reminder of that other home, such a poignant connection. Then her quote from Gandhi, The seeker after truth / should be humbler than the dust, something we all need to hear. This humility is emphasized by the line Wherever we go, it follows; we are none of us exempt.

So she dusts windowsills, lampshade, table top, gently removing the relentless accumulation. And still, it returns – so true is it not? Every surface ultimately sifted with this fine powder, waiting to be noticed. That last line, her question, caught my attention – What could be more loyal, / more lonely, and unsung? I cannot argue dust’s reliability, though I had not thought of it as lonely, but unsung, yes, until now with this poem.