this dirt

the dirt of this place,
staining and soiling,
deep in the fibers and lungs,
carries a hue, changes a view.
what does it tarnish?
what does it polish?
somehow the coloration is beautiful,
worn, spent, purposeful.
somehow underneath white remains,
there’s depth resistant to stain.
some things once dusted off,
or at least assumed to be,
small bits, big stains,
hard to be, good to me.
painting a fresh blank canvas,
not by adding but peeling,
mud and soil one in the same,
to a story its only revealing.
this dust,
relentless, sneaky, and pervasive.
this dust,
picked up, carried, now mine.
this dust,
i don’t think i can wash it off,
i don’t think i want to.
formed from the dirt,
adorned by the dirt.
it’s becoming a sacred look,
and i think it’s supposed to.