Sunday is the saddest day

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.