Delectus

On the bookshelf rests a lamination of dust,

So fresh and fine that a spider would leave footprints in it,

Almost like a snow of dead skin, dirt, and dander,

Even the afternoon sun beams are strong enough to stir them,

Collecting them in motes to float about,

Dancing in the heated rays,

Only to settle once again on another surface,

When the day draws to close,

As they most often do.