There is dust on the handle.
Once there was none.
Turned so often before,
In welcome and fun.
Brought home from the store,
Shiny and new.
Turned with a twist,
To open the view.
Polished by use,
From across the land.
Solid and smooth.
Firm in the hand.
So often turned,
To welcome them so.
A kiss and a hug,
A love they would know.
Turned to reveal,
A long welcomed face.
Or, turned with a sigh,
Time can’t erase.
Now there is dust on the handle.
Once there was none.
Time does its passing,
Fate’s duty is done.
There’s dust on the handle.
Once shiny and new.
It holds and waits.
Which view is true?

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