looking through me

Spring is coming; I love the change in light—the degree-by-degree leaning ever closer to the sun—each day lingering longer in its embrace.

I mark the creeping spread of light: the herald of summer’s longer days and shorter nights. Still I savor the brevity of winter’s light and the bounty of its night. How monotonous would it be to clock time unchanged day in, day out, year in, year out! Could I abide the spin without the tilt—the equatorial life of same—equal bright and equal night? No, no, higher up the rungs of latitude do I belong.

Light’s seasonal rhythm settles my restless slant. Light and dark, sun and moon, long and short. It’s life. Lighter and darker, brighter and bleaker, longer and shorter. I need the back and forth, the gentle progression, the constant creep—but I reel when it jumps an hour at once. Was any daylight saved in the slaughter?

Slow, steady shift of shadows . . . I’m waiting to watch you, but what name of the hour shall I call you?