Ode to the Bunnies of the Dust

A tiny universe of
forgotten treasures of the past
woven to perfection
by the leftovers of time,
sneaky little toe ticklers
that attach themselves to your socks
and float from finger to
finger in an attempt to
toss them aside.

Perfect scrapbooks
of times well spent.  
Discarded tresses
lovingly released by a brush,
are embraced with pink and white
dust floating down
from blinking eyes
mixing with uplifted dried bodily
cast offs from eloquent
savagery of the flesh
are shaken from blankets
relocated to the floor
to join the glittering niche
that tumbles around the ground.

Chips that blow and twirl
about from corner to desktop
of colors slyly familiar
to the bitter yellow
image, crucified by a tack
to a cube which shelters
a silly hearted
teddy bear nurse.
Find themselves welcomed
in a collective,
sneered by the face of a muse.

Miles of hiking up stones,
near falling water, and trees
that reach for the gods,
embeds the clay of the earth
and the bark of the arbor
into treads
taking these passengers for a ride
and thumping them off
as the journey ends
into the nest of other forgotten tales.

Buttery popped corn
adds a flavor that once graced
the tongues of sweethearts
on an incomparable night
of joyous tears and
soulful discussions during which
“Death of a Salesman” added white noise
to the background
of a room
covered in flakes of dried memories
from times filled laugher and sorrow.

Each of these knock-about-clowns,
that chase small children
in their sleep,
compose the forgotten music
of the symphony
we play in life.