Early January, snowed under.
The sky deep blue as a flower
where the Nosterkill rushes under ice
in the direction of all streams
that join greater waters.
Inside, I was washing my hair
at my weekend routine,
blissfully soaking in a warm bath,
as I rinsed off soap and shampoo.
Where light fell in slanting shafts
to lie in squares on the green floor,
I saw colonies of dust motes,
twirling, falling, rising.
So many they were myriad,
yet I never knew
they were always there
trapped in light and air,
unfelt, unheard, unseen.