Deserts in winter cleanse the mind’s pretence,
as water washes cobwebs veiling sense
perception, but it only takes one drop
of hope to stir a murky wet suspense
of judgement. Hope: without it living flops
from crisis through despair, not many stops
reprieving burdens taken freely. Man
at surface skims upon the ranking tops
assured importance, nature’s grace less than
desire of grasping fist with craven plan.
Of course, I witness beauty simply, eyes
content, absorbing whole attention span.