Dust

Welcome to the world,
we'll carry you through until
the next stop.

Ruddy-cheeked and wailing,
from one place to another,
a bright light
on both ends of a wormhole.

Spitting you out into the
cosmos in 80,
maybe 90 earth years.

It will be a great journey,
there will be fireworks,
and roses in the summer.
The birthdays will come,
and you will learn 
what the moon is made of.

Hint: It is not cheese.

And suddenly, you won't 
even remember, your hands
will be brittle,
your eyesight failing,
you will watch birds at the windowsill
for hours.
People will cease to visit.

And so comes the celestial tide,
open-armed to take you
and place you in the next place
you are needed.

Dust to dust,
we are all made of the same
things, pieces of each other
over and over.

The stars part for you.
The nebulas nod their heads
towards you as you are 
carried,
and maybe this time
you will be a tree,
or a little baby
or maybe you
will become a constellation.

A planetary body,
a bright and roving 
comet.