One in Ten Million

One in ten million; those are the odds
Of finding another in perfect alignment.
I know this for sure from experience:
I've been to the mill so many times,
My mitts sifting flour-falls hours on end,
Seeking a speck, a miraculous match.
The few times I've touched one,
At once a wild windstorm has whisked it away,
For such fluffy flakes are insubstantial,
Impermanent, prone to vagrancy.
They skitter down cracks and are lost forever,
Though sometimes not: one crumb remains
Trapped in a crevice within my sight.
A comfort, I guess, considering
These otherwise bare and splintery floorboards
Offer no cushion for my head.
Soon they will tenderly tenon together
To form my coffin. Little mote, stay by me!