Rosy fingered dawn,
sing ring around the rosie,
ashes, all fall down.
The garbage truck comes
early, no rush hour traffic,
eerie weekday hush.
Peace that is no peace,
calm before the silent storm,
distant ties that bind.
This is the way the
world waits for the uncanny—
neither fire nor ice.
The momentary
comforts of the gentle light,
Mary’s getting up.
Roy Herndon Smith
dust 