When the dust settles,
what will be left?
Will we still remember,
the clash of sticks,
scratching at ground,
the fascinating ability,
to find the fun in anything,
or will we be wired,
inseparably tied,
to electronic beep,
and flashing light?
When the dust settles,
will we still know how,
to play in the dirt,
make mud pies,
make cookies from scratch,
and laugh at a poof of flour?
Or will we forget,
what it means to get dirty,
how to sustain ourselves,
the taste of homemade bread,
and the thrill of waiting,
as it's smell fills the house?
When my kids are grown,
will dust mean the same thing,
or will the only dust they know,
be stirred up by power,
outside of themselves,
a race car's wake,
or the danger filled cloud,
whisked up by the buzz,
of a rotary saw,
big boys toys,
to be carefully guarded?
When the dust settles,
will we still be human?
Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.
