One Free Hour

Oct 27 2011

The clocks will change,

that precious extra hour

we banked in spring

reclaimed

interest-free.

Then the lake will freeze, snow deepen,

until the longest night of the year

when spring seems barely possible.

But in the tropics

neither north, nor south

there are only two seasons  —

day, and night.

Precisely 12 hours, on the equator

day in, day out

month after month.

Just hurricanes

to break the monotony.

In the doldrum heat,

where underneath, there’s rot

and the soil’s exhausted

and you can set your clock

by the sun.

No deep freeze

to reset the earth.

No season of rest

and latency.

No burrowing pests

killed by killer frost.

I know the living is easy

weather, an afterthought.

But at what cost?

No long hot summer

to measure out our lives.

No mid-winter night

with its glimmer of light

that proclaims the world reborn.

No extra hour

on a Sunday morn,

cocooning closer

and doing whatever we please.

In this illicit hour

we needn’t account

to anyone for.

A poem of gratitude for 4 distinct seasons.

And a rare poem, in that I conclude with a preposition – not just a line, but the entire piece:  a very weak word with which to end. But the word “for” not only works with the rhyme (reborn/morn/for), it flouts grammatical correctness, and in so doing creates a feeling as free as that illicit hour.