Dust

Photo credit: Rodion Kutsaev

Sunday morning sun sifts through the vertical breach between the window casing and the blinds. The arrows of light prick my eyes, and I must shift on the pillows to see. Dust, I tell you, look at the dust. Sunlight illuminates iotas of pollen and plastic, soil and cells, fibers and feet. And stars. Stars in our bedroom, a petite galaxy.

I wonder at how dead bits quicken in the light. Held in divine radiance, even the dust mites glitter. Even bodies of ash might become beautiful, might reflect the given luminescence.

This microblog is part of a current series called “Grace-glimpses.”