The Lachrymosity of the Weather

The tormented Sky was grieving greatly.

She veiled herself in a black shroud of clouds,

Yet the townspeople knew of her dolor.

The Sky pleaded with her belovéd Sun,

Beseeching him to stay a while longer before

He disappeared beyond the horizon.

S

The Sky threw herself onto the dark clouds,

Relentlessly kicking and punching them.

She caught electricity from the air

And frenziedly sent it hurtling to earth,

Those rays from the Sun who she held so dear;

Thoughts of their absence caused her eyes to tear.

S

The Sun felt despondent for seeing the

Lamenting child which lay before him,

Yet he could only offer his daughter

The few comforting words he could muster

As he continued on his westward journey.

The Sun tentatively touched the tall grass,

It was a mere nervous handshake at first,

But, at last, they moved to a full embrace.

The Sun said to lessen the Sky’s great pain,

“Don’t worry, we’ll see each other again.”

S

The Moon had arrived to take the Sun’s place,

It, the cruel herald of the Sky’s distaste

For its arrival caused the Sun’s swift haste;

On that Moon the Sun’s departure was based.

S

The Sky intensified her petition.

Her grim, lachrymose mood further darkened,

Her hope-holding orange tone contorting

And growing blacker ev’ry moment.

Her bawls and caterwauls turned palpable,

Franticly running over each other

In their quest to be the next messenger

Of her dejection to reach the Sun’s ears.

She flooded the clouds with torrents of tears.

S

As the leading edge of the waning Sun

Passed six feet beneath the moist, tattered ground,

He weaved a picturesque parting rainbow

To help adorn the ravaged, surreal land.

The Sky reflected on the Sun’s grand life

Through the dark, painful mirror of his death.

Her bleak bemoaning continued until

In the Moon’s hands she was woefully left.

S

The townspeople gathered to view the night.

Many before had seen this morose sight.

An army of stars, their light piercing bright,

Established the Moon’s celestial might.

The Moon now approached the seat of the Sun,

Its trek to its crest it began to run.

The conquest of the Sky the Moon had won,

Yet the Sky’s pleasure in this remained none;

The patter of the rain continued on,

Mourning the Sun of whom she was so fond,

Coping with the fact that the Sun was gone.

Her forlorn shroud of sorrow she still donned.

Never there’s been a fate of cruel feather

Like to the bereavement of the weather.