Dusting//Bonsai- Poetry

Soft cloth

Smooth surface

Every twitch

Of my hand

Is a lineA perfect line

So pure

So clear

Dust and dirt

From ancient places

On my table set

Once again

Into motion


Is instant

In accomplished lines

I see my work

When dusting I know

What I do


My work has outcome

My hands have purpose

But this-

This is not dusting, this

Is bonsai

I plan



Daily, and

It is not instant

In fact

I cannot see

What is my work?

Do my hands

Have purpose?

My hope is this:

When my hands fall still

Will I have made

Something  temporary

Fragile, and bound

To get dusty again


Something precious


Carved with time

Shaped with mind

My heart and my hope

Every dull day

When I doubt

I will force my hands

To labor for this



And important


The growth of my soul,

Fragile green branches budding

On a bonsai tree

By Erin Rain Gautier

(Final stanza is a Haiku, in honor of bonsai and the art of discovering structure.)

Photo by Bérénice Blanc on Unsplash

Poetry, FaithErin Rain Gautier