We lost an hour this week
and each day I lost it again.
The leap in time—late lattes and
scones with my niece, her pals,
a precious hour in another town.
Scheduling mix ups sent me
twice to the same doctor, twice
to Wegmans, twice back home.
Which hour—the extra time it took
to pick-up my normally dropped-off
grand daughter? Or the moment that time
stopped for us both, as a wild turkey flew by
at eye-level, missing my windshield by inches?
The hour that I travelled back to high
school, thanks to the boy who taped, the
man who found, and the one who posted
a recording of my dear, dear friend singing
her Brigadoon songs—bringing her back to life.
Reading Sports on Reachout Radio on top
of my regular section—lost in a foreign land.
What hour will slip away on Friday? One
Year they’ll stop this nonsense and keep
Daylight Savings time all year. But if
they do it before we Fall Back, that hour
will always be lost, like a hole in the ground,
that once housed a nest of bunnies, or
a hole in the sky, that once knew a star.