TO DUST

Waiting for the bus, I watch him sweeping
the remnants of yesterday's activity,
things left behind, neglected, forgotten,
into the ordered lines of poetry.
It's still not bright, people are shivering,
clutching their luggage. He's moving easily,
distant from the crowd, making
the world look new again. I envy

his sweeping confidence, lack of hesitation,
all moving to a necessary purpose,
clearing paths for the fresh accumulation
of new material, not turning up his nose
at whatever life throws in his direction,
giving it form and structure before it goes.