Dust Mote

I am a dust mote,
a speck, a barely
perceptible particle,
created, not from nothing,
but from destruction—
the breakdown of 
something large
into something tiny—
tattered leaves
crushed blossoms
mown grass
sloughed-off 
human skin, hair, fur
floating DNA
memories
dreams.

I am seemingly insignificant
I have no personal agency
I go where I am carried
by wind, water,
animal movement.
A door opens
and a breeze lifts me
or drops me—
I am coating a table
I am staining the floor. 

But for one glorious moment
I may be caught in sunlight
suspended in golden air—
I am as beautiful 
as any diamond,
as big as any star.