The hour slides into my thoughts.
I feel a brush across my face,
as if a hot wind was initiating
a plan to hold me captive,
to do it’s dirty work and have me
in it’s grasp.
The hour is the same each day
A time of dispirited emptiness.
A time that could extend into
intervals without ceasing.
The hostile wind blows heat
into my integral being and creates
raw color within my surroundings.
long shadows and pale sun.
Dead leaves deflate me.
There is no joy in the sound
of animals troding across death.
But, I will take possession of this hour.
I will not remain in distraction
or allow it to clothe me in
it’s damp cold attire.
The hour will be mine in glory
and peace.