Even though we don’t at once see it,
There’s dust floating somewhere in the air.
We know, when it gathers on ledges
Or makes an appearance, it is there.
Isn’t that somewhat like God, I ask,
Invisibly present in our lives?
Yet skeptics and atheists demur,
Denying what conjecture contrives.
For all this, there’s a force that raises
Pillars of dust, though is never seen,
Yet deduced or by induction known,
Like my core self others barely glean,
But is my certain ground, my being,
And proof that being knows without seeing.
