poems circulated in the gc

Dust by Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’�t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’�s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’�re just too tired to open it.