Dust Cathedral

Morning slants through the kitchen window and the floating particles—flecks of salt, skin, star-matter—become a congregation of light.

Each mote a small miracle, wandering the visible spectrum, bearing witness to what we cannot hold: time moving through air.

The vacuum cleaner waits in the corner, prophet of erasure, but we do not reach for it. We stand instead in the shaft of gold, letting the small things drift.

This is how grace enters ordinary rooms—not announced, but suspended, turning, asking nothing but to be seen.