Inside the dust
hanging from the ceiling fan
lives the magic.
Over time the dust
comes out to play.
The dust despises summer.
The dust gets sick
projecting little tiny particles
in a spiral fashion.
The dust wishes
to be a window.
Wishing to see
anything but the blade.
The blade.
Don’t talk about the blade.
The dust multiplies
in fear of the blade.
Spreading far and wide
the dust never realized
the shape of the moon.
If only the dust
hung from the moon.
If only the moon
had the magic of the dust.