January.
The harmattan dust arrived like a virulent new strain
of some long forgotten deadly virus.
I got home one evening and it was just there,
a thin film covering everything.
Naturally, I went at it with energy
A rag in my hand, a song in my head.
Before long we had settled into a rhythm
I would clean up - the dust would return
It could have been more than a rhythm
maybe it was the whole dance
Ultimately, the dust would win
I took to picking a dusty spot to sit in
equally dusty house clothes
to watch the dust eat at everything
including my heart that needed tending