The dance

The summer breeze stirs them
into a dervish —
this crowd of dancers
without faces and without names.
They leap at the command
of our footsteps, and pirouette
at the turning of tires
recounting civilization’s strides.
Their collective memory holds
what has been, what is,
and what will be.

And we inhale them
into our lungs, where they occupy
the passages pilling heavy
and sticky like the years,
with their stories
and their dance.
For when everything has come to pass,
all shall return to them — to dust.

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