The body is arrogant
for something destined
to become earth.
We decorate it.
Feed it.
Photograph it.
Defend its importance.
Then one day
it returns quietly
to the material
beneath our feet.
Dust.
The same dust
kings become.
The same dust
beggars become.
Still, I cannot believe
a good life disappears
so easily.
A kindness moves forward.
A child remembers.
A prayer remains
in someone else’s mouth.
Perhaps the body
returns to earth.
But goodness has always
travelled differently.
Dust takes the hands.
Not everything
they touched.
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