Friday, March 18, 2016

Daylight Saving Time

A poem for Kristi Wallace Knight

Numbered days stub hard enough
against the breathing soul,
and when they take an hour away
we stumble even more:
is it for this we left the trees
and stood up on the shore?

What say we wallow in the weeds
and crawl back to the wood:
damn fields and sharpened throwing sticks
and cookfires and the Good,
and calendared years that clot up death
in all we understood.

1 comment:

rbarenblat said...

I love this, even though I don't find the time change all that onerous. (Indeed: I love the way it suddenly makes the spring evenings even longer!) But this poem is beautiful.