Silt

Like water flowing into dust,
a river running o'er,
one drop of you's a flood to us,
and still the rain, it pours.

And what could mere dust do but float
or sink beneath your waves
and cling to other drowning motes
to love them to their graves?

Oh, how can dust love other dust
or rest within its arms?
The river's current stirring us
will scatter us afar.

We rise and dye the water brown,
then settle where it slows
and cling again to those we've found,
and still the river flows.

O God, in you we live and move,
we break, we still, we die.
How little are our life and love;
how great the seas that rise.

But still you love each mote of dust,
though nothing it may be,
and still your current stirs in us
to bring us to the sea.