Sometimes, my hopes scrabble away,
faster than tumbleweeds at the command of the wind,
shrivel like tropical flowers in a heat that is anything but semi
and definitely arid–a dust devil circling, spinning
killing with arrogance and display.
Sometimes, I expect them to die, or
at least to abandon me like the fairweather friends they are
because, like the desert nomad and his bitter-eyed wisdom,
I have watched living dreams die mercilessly
sometimes at my own hand.
Sometimes, my hopes defy me–like morning glories
they refuse to die, they are more weed than flower:
they come true, and I am not prepared–elation scoffs to grace my surprise.
Loyal, they thrive, prosper, persevere.
Somewhere, someone is laughing.