Dirt

A bowl of popcorn tipped over to

release hundreds, maybe tens, 

of hot, white clouds of corn 

over the woolen area rug.

The broom, last used to dust up

after a long haired cat, already

overburdened with irregular sweeps, 

pushed nothing into the dust pan.

On hands and knees then,

loose fibers from the rug and 

life shards shred from the couch

became alarmingly conspicuous.

Vacuuming over the daily life

a few days before meant to

pick up the dirt, failed miserably.

It appeared clean. And company came.

Corralling this spill carefully not to disturb

the delinquent debris visible just now,

perhaps, was meant to live in perpetuity as

a reminder that not all that is left 

is meant to be forgotten. Clean is wiped out

as some dirt clings so as to cultivate

hybrid strength and a new varietal

from what had been left behind.