The twice annual ritual of time travel occur tonight in which we step back an hour, regaining the sacrifice we offered to Kronos in March. Here is a short poem on the subject to read if you are up at two A.M. with nothing to read. It is from a book of poem I wrote titled, The Funny Thing About a Poem.
Marking Time
Today was longer
than the day before
with the hour we borrowed
in March when they seemed
so ripe and fresh
only now filled with leaves
piled beneath bare trees
waiting for someone
to sweep them away
like the hands of a clock
marking time in passing
People ask where time goes
salt from a shaker
seasoning the savor of life
If well-preserved it melds
into collections of memories
hours here and there
piled high at the feet
only waiting
for one Fall day
with an extra hour
to press them into
the scrapbook of sorts
that is where time goes
when it steps back
one hour suspended
waiting for time
to pass once more
