The Third Hour

The third hour was lovely, though not like the fourth,

But I suppose you already knew that.

All had grown still, frozen by the low sun;

Branches encased in their ice coffins,

The clouds gave the sky her veil,

And they wept for the loss of the mourning son.

I wish you could have seen it,

But you’d already left by then,

Gone somewhere warmer, I suppose.

Such a shame, really.

You missed the funeral procession,

All of its gaudy glory, all of its lies,

It was quite the sideshow.

But I suppose you already knew that, too.

It was from this parade that I wandered,

From that charade that I wandered.

I jumped the cable and fell into the leaves,

To me they whispered your song,

The sweet serenade you sang before you left.

I laughed in your memory

With the kind of joy that you would have,

And I cast off my shade and its weight.

Yes, the fourth hour was far more the lovelier

But now it’s the eleventh hour,

And I’d better get ready to leave.

- A Weiler