Thunder in the Eleventh Hour

The Eleventh Hour Thunder

by Matthew H. Burns

I was awakened by thunder in the Eleventh hour.
I opened my eyes to a wondrous new world.
The air was crisp, and a bird was singing
A song I had never before heard.

The scent of Calla Lilies permeated my bedchamber
Carried by a gentle breeze through my open window.
The eiderdown pillow beneath my head
Was fluffed to perfection and beckoned me to rest.

Though the taste of regret lingered upon my tongue,
It was overshadowed by the perfection of the moment.
The sweet solitude of calm and relaxation
Came upon me and granted a long-sought gift.

Had it not been for the thunder of the Eleventh hour,
I would have been asleep when the lightning struck.

An Alternate View

The nights are cold, the days hot.
A sign of things to come
Granny always said she hated this time of year.
She said it was the season of dying and death,
Pretty flowers would bloom no more
until the sun returned with life anew,
The mountains obligated to be desolate
after the Mother demands tribute.
Some might say the mountains afire is a thing of beauty,
Granny said that’s just like somebody saying
how good a corpse looks, or how pretty a coffin is,
and there’s nothing pretty about it.

It’s nothing but death, pure and simple.
A sure sign of things to some.