the one of we

a desert blooms, then dies.
there is no life, it seems.
it's waiting for the rain.

the rain will come and it
will once again be born,
exploding from the sand.

the sand will seem a sea
of starfish, octopi, and rays.

and when we see it we will know
it's there for us.
we'll let it grow.
there's no discussing what would be
if there were not these days,

these days of light,
amid the days of darkness,
punctuating joys
that cycle
as the breaths of love
that travel from our hearts.

we're not two parts:
we're one
and we will see the sun
that shines and carries heat,
and we will wait for clouds
that carry life, and meet
among the crying crowds
and care not for the things
they cry about
because they're meaningless.

and we will soar,
and we will find
the meaning more
than left behind:
it's what we make it.

we can see
the master
of our destiny
and it is we.