These dust motes, so gently pirouetting,
can, from certain angles in slanted light,
reform to embody the departed.
Libraries are full of such airborne ghosts
moving quietly between sleepy shelves,
attending to their liminal business.
Open a forgotten book, a fat tome
on Greek history say, and out they come,
liberated to scintillate in beams
sloping from tall windows; to dance in gusts
from the actions of automatic doors.
Closing the pages renders them homeless,
left to circle in whispering limbo
until one day like summoned saints, they sail
up, up, up, to peace on high picture rails.
