Let Our Winters Stay

Somebody yanked the dark away
without consulting me. It’s too
damned light at six p.m. – the clock
tick-tocks insultingly: supposed

to be the heaven I expect when we
approach the evening that adheres
to early March at seven. Perhaps
you think it’s sour to get mad at

the abrupt manipulation of a single
hour, but body rhythms know when
there’s an un-enchanted bumpy
screw-up in the flow: a blatant misuse

of our annum’s chronologic power.
Next month we’ll get the flower:
we wouldn’t mind a bit more snow.
Let our winters stay before they go.




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