The wind
shield wipers sweep back and forth like twin fanatical cleansers,
Wiping clean
every drop of the rain that manages to splatter on the glass,
Leaving him
wondering if this is the season ripe for picking of the dreamers,
Who see
patterns and whorls of reason in every water blot that does pass.
Each drop
falling onto the dried up, thirsty sands in the desert of his mind,
Almost
instantly sizzling up and evaporating and yet leaving a trace, a print,
A memory of
the wetness, the smell of rain, a breeze cool and for once kind,
And yet the thirst
is impossible to quench, its momentary relief just a hint.
A hint that
brings back memories of a different time and a different space,
Dreams that
once flew unhindered and now buried under a blanket of reality,
Slowly
stretch in awakening and brush the cobwebs away as they surface,
Only to see
that the sky they once flew in is now shielded by a veil of practicality.
Voices of
companions long lost call like wraiths dancing on the edge of reason,
Four way
streets that they separated at, shining like signposts marking milestones,
The desolation
that welled up inside still threatens, a tar coating the sand uneven,
Zebra
stripes of optimism and cynicism alternating amid the bleached white bones.
A silent
mist rolls in swiftly carried by the wind, obscuring and clouding vision,
Carrying a
cold that bites and gnaws, keeping the last trace of moisture intact,
Chasing out
all dreams and wraiths, burying all the memories in ruthless eviction,
The white
sands are cold again, undisturbed and untouched, almost pristine in fact.
As he realizes that the rain has stopped and so the splotches of wetness on the glass,
The wipers
almost smiling in their victory dance as the rain drops gave up the fight,
Little do they
know why the rain drops smile in retreat, as the clouds above pass,
For through
the sand the rain did reach a seed buried deep, a shoot emerging to light.
Through the
clouds a ray of sunshine bursts, a warm nurturing and giving spotlight,
That bathes
the little blade of green, the young warrior of hope and dreams eternal,
As it
unfurls and smells the cold air, the endless realm of white sand not an easy
sight,
And yet it
waves its optimism in the wintry air, a flag of the resurgent spirit internal
