I Chase the Wind.

Hope.

A tumble of weed
rolls passed.
Drawing my footprints
in the sand,
one by one, behind it.

I'm afraid,
alone on this barren lee,
I see neither blade nor brick.
I want to drench this sparse vista,
dip and dampen.
The broad, brown weed drifts,
I follow its wake into the wind.

To catch a gossamer strand;
potential of a seed,
I enslave myself
to brittle promise.

Author's Note

Generally I think my poetry stinks ... I stll write it though--any ideas would be very welcome.