The sun is rising, clear and bright,
winds gushing from all over,
a huge dust storm looms,
its pale shadowing the white.

The road ahead livens hope
despite the traffic's relaxing noise
falling leaves from trees remind
around one, our lives are loped.

Few hours of the lightened dark
dampens the inherent fears
a small window in the bottom right
rejuvinates them to re-embark.

If only one could sense
rains are meant to come close
and not to wither apart
holding one's hands in one's hands.

A misguided choice it may seem
but the truth is concealed
inside the riddle of variance
between doom and deem.