A Handful of Dust

One hand holds the sands
of time within its grasp.
See
the granules seeping past
   clutched fingers?
I am the relic, drawn up
from tear parched earth,
my other hand holds
the dust tightly,
as
   a witness
time is fleeting, hovering
with translucent feathers of
snowy doves, drowning within
full yellow hue, ghost tide moon.
See the great horned owl, taking
flight upon the arrival of a calm
lingering death of day?
Hovering over dry dead fields of
autumn corn husk,
talons snapped tightly upon the
tiny rodent, that never saw that
its demise was eminent—
the dust and sand have now been
cast into the lament of stars,
where the ghost of lost lovers dwell.