402 and 403

Each week for but an hour or two I see

a clearing the the dark clouds over me,

but all week long the Sun is tucked away,

except for when I see thee on Sunday.

Make just a window through the clouds for me,

for just a little moment, with me, be.

Another hour or two come out, I pray,

on someday other than just on Sunday.

Hide not from me all week the light that’s thee,

make gold my heart as thou dost the whole sea.

Stay with me—do not let the earth go gray,

stay with me more than only on Sunday;

and say (if it is what you want to say)

if you’d shed light upon me every day.

~~~

And while my weave unraveled and unspun,

and all my bolts reversed their status quo,

and glues all melted, down they glibly run,

down, down to stick me to the ground below;

and hinges hiccupped as they tried to bend,

and gears groaned as they ticked on rusty rods,

and warping wood that I cannot now mend,

and cannot stop these cold corrosive cogs;

and while I watched this entropic affair,

I felt my face grow wide into a grin,

and heard a hearty chuckle in the air,

and found whereat the laughing did begin:

and caught the joke; and laughed along with me,

and we two decomposed with garish glee.