Perhaps it was the hummingbird
hovering over the red salvia
(they prefer the red to the blue)
or the slightly gray-rained sky,
but I hear her words of decades
ago: Sunday is the saddest day.
The woman expressed the heart
of the girl, whose favorite night
was Friday, the start of the free,
even fleeting as it was, even if she
knew Sunday was the hope.
The world is still much, and so
the boy within the man sees
the light filtered by stained panes,
or the bird that fills the space above,
or the hymns and songs thrusting joy
upward beyond the rafters, and still
thinks of the sadness, beautiful.
This poem is submitted for the “beautiful sadness” prompt at dVerse Poets. To see more poems submitted, please visit the site.
Photograph: Sad Man and Rain, by Jiri Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.