Brilliant, blistering sun
beating down on head
exposed to the brutal blanket
of heat burning the brand,
the mark of wanderers on the back of
your neck, behind your ears.
Lips cracked, cheeks chapped,
calloused lids worn thin by
dust flying on the arid winds
blowing through barren dunes adrift
on a sea of emptiness.
This is the desert.
And when gritty eyes open,
they see differently, clearly,
like they were born again
for softer vision.
Rough edges are worn down,
your heart tuned to the rhythm of hope
working its way around the mountainside.
You know now, like love,
sowing hope is hard work;
but the harvest is peace,
an oasis on the sandy steppes
where you find rest for your
weary, wonder-full soul.
This is the desert.
