Dust to dust

Ashes of ourselves, blowing across the floor
Seem to pile and remain forever in the fireplace corner.
No matter that we sweem them up
           and pitch them out the back door-
They wind up back
           just as before:
Drifting in, on logs of mossy memories,
            silent and unnoticed,
To make us stop
                         and
                                  stare
and study their
             jilted presence once more.
Endless nostalgia and hurt
Cramp space for our new chairs....
These ashes cling to the mirror,
And leave us looking for comfort.