This is the morning we wake groggily to each year, feeling as if we’d been on a bender and had lost an hour somewhere, but vaguely knowing wherever it went hadn’t been for fun. I thought I’d share a little prose poem to add a touch of what will serve as humor to mark the occasion.
Cassandra
On one Sunday each November, I am granted an extra hour to find all the clocks I lost an hour to in early March, so that I may set them straight. And each year I uncover one rebellious clock behind a sofa or a watch hiding in the lint of a pocket that refused to give up its precious hour one cold March night. All of which leaves me to ponder that it knew, all summer long an hour before me, where I left my glasses or that I would slip on the dog’s toy and break my arm, and that it had been mute to help. But then I recall that persistent alarm from a clock I could never find, and I wonder. And so each Fall, I put that clock back in its place, hoping I might just listen this time.
