Dust Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

The heads of grain will shake and fall to ground
When stacks and sheaves are torn apart to thresh
And dust and empty bays are all that's found
As bags and bales are cleared and floors made fresh

The rounds of dough will form and rise and stretch
And those who sift the flour that's baked for bread
Will trim the bowl and wipe the dusty bench
While tools are cleansed for times that stretch ahead

But I concede that I am only dust
Like golden lads and girls of olden days -
Whose specks and flecks and motes in search of rest
Were brought to muted and more silent stays -

When harvest's home and daily bread is spent
The dust of words must witness for any who repent.