Dust if You Must

I recently ran across this poem, as unfolded laundry cascaded in a graceful mountain from tabletop, down chairs, to the floor, and dishes piled high, and dust went undusted for yet another week. I sat down to read instead, because despite the mess, my mind was uncharacteristically clear. I've had a hard time reading this past year...there's just too much on my mind, and while I read and read I find I can't remember a word my eyes just skimmed across. My Goodreads account remains barren of new books read, and the books I've started sit with only a few chapters digested. Guilt about so much to do left undone feeds a mental apathy about losing myself in a good book; and while I try to take time to write I feel like I'm playing hide and seek in the fog just to find a word.

Dust if You Must

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go -- and go you must --
You, yourself, will make more dust.