Mornings I shake out the window shades
and let in light. Tiny invisible dust particles
moving through the air become visible,
a living room galaxy, whirling in destructive orbit paths,
then slowly settling. If they are light enough and not too near
the wind path of a door, the tiny matter suspend
and maybe rise again, once or twice
during my reading. They are tiny light-sleds
barreling down a wall of snow I cannot see
but turn each page lightly into.