We speak of old mountains eroding away, crumbling, truncated by eons of wind, rain, earthquake. But what is old on this planet, this earth? What does it mean to be young? To be old? Even the cosmic dust is as old in its elements as the oldest particle. It is the reformation that is new. As mountains, one is new, another is old. As matter, all are the same.
I like to think of cosmic dust falling through the planet’s atmosphere, burned in the friction of air to an invisible speck. So small it slips into a pore of my skin, meanders with determined gravity past cellular atoms to fall out of me at some point of exit further down nearer the ground and there on the earth it lies, slightly contaminated by contact with my interior self.
I imagine it is an infinitesimal fraction of a long dead race of beings come to rest here. I put out my tongue and taste the memories of others dropping radiant from the sky.