She has a feel for dust.
The eyes that strain to read a book
can spot, unfailingly, those finely
scattered molecules of skin,
the daily flotsam of the air.
Arthritic fingers still have strength
to guide her cloth into the finest crack,
and from each shelf, each pane of glass,
it reaps its thin grey harvest.
She stops to look at it, and smiles.
Look! What once seemed invisible
is there for all to see.
she resumes her work:
precise, efficient, missing no square inch.
But not too fast,
for then the task would soon be done
and what meaning would there be
if there were no dust?