Lost Time

Feb 28 2020

Every 4 years

the calendar gets to correct itself.

Omission and error absolved,

without even a Hail Mary

or giving to charity

contrition or prayer.

If only we, too, could so easily move on,

transgressions forgiven

sins expunged.

Because the calendar is merely approximate

while physical law is inviolable,

and the earth, as it circles the sun

will not be deterred

by a glib declaration of man.

What a relief, this leap year must be

for those born on the 29^th.

Who are orphaned most of the time,

celebrating birthdays in March

or elbowing in

on the legitimate progeny

of the day before.

But if only it fell

at the end of July,

an extra day of summer

instead of this bleak month;

the middle of winter

as the darkness is starting to lift

but not nearly enough.

When, on the 29^th

we will catch up with lost time,

the universe

unfolding as it should;

the earth, steadily circling the sun,

and the galaxy's spiral arms

hurtling through the cosmos.

Day after day, from dawn to dusk

as month follows month

and the years add up.

When, as usual, we will also carry on

in all our virtue, vice, and doubt,

regardless of the calendar

and fully aware

there are no make-up days for us.

A leap year poem that contrasts a clockwork universe with our arbitrary conventions and feeble conceits, its eternal majesty with our pettiness and weaknesses. We are free to declare an extra day of summer, but summer will still be just as short. We can correct the errors that accumulate in our calendar, but cannot be so easily absolved of our own failure and sin.