“But still, like dust, I’ll rise.” Maya Angelou
Dancing The less used room full of stuff, dry books and papers on a table, curtains drawn even though it is only afternoon and nowhere hot, the sense that this room is always so except for the chink where they meet. There a shaft of piercing light catches my eye, more for the dancing dust on threads of sun a nod to the surrender of life now filling the scene before me, and I get to wondering, one day I too will dance on shafts of golden light. Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon All Rights Reserved ®
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