Fall Back
It’s returned, that hour lost last April,
slipped in at 2am while a half-moon gleamed
in the pine. Hovered while I slept,
unclaimed angel, tick-tock.
But I don’t desire to use it yet —
I want to be selfish, I want to hoard.
I want to tear it into ten-minute bits,
fold one into my wallet for the late appointment,
one in the vegetable bin when lolla rosa
need last until supper. Under my pillow
to extend the dream, in the oven to slow
Quick Yellow Cake. I’ll give one to my son
to get out of jail free. And one
I’ll bury in the garden in eternal plastic,
mark an X with apples. Maybe
I’ll forget it’s there. And just maybe,
in the next century someone will unearth
a ten-minute treasure, spend it lavishly.
copyright 2010 T. Clear
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Oh I just LOVE that poem! It's exactly how I feel about the extra hour - I want to hoard it, revel in it all day. But I never thought of hoarding bits of it for the future. It's a gorgeous image and thank you for it. a whole lot.
ReplyDeleteI really enjoyed this poem, too, perhaps most for that little joyous aha moment of recognition, so poetically well expressed. :)
ReplyDeleteLovely poem! I feel the same way about that hour and now want to do the same thing, when we change time next weekend.
ReplyDeleteLovely poem, T.
ReplyDeleteBut I never feel like it's gone or then back. Except of course the light. But that's regardless of time.
I am going to add my gushing delight to the other four comments, and say that I adore this poem!
ReplyDeleteI am fascinated by the expression of our inner time, I wrote my thesis on it! And this poem expresses that inner lost hour so quietly and yet so resoundingly.
Thank you for posting this!
I think the closest you can come to this is to hide twenty dollar bills in books... This idea of yours about the lost hour is so sweet because it reveals a love of life. thanks, sp
ReplyDeleteMy dear blogger friends...
ReplyDeleteAs always, your generous comments leave me just a bit shy and stuttery in my attempt to show my appreciation.
I find it interesting that this poem received a lukewarm reception from my writing group (all good people, every one!) and they got hung up on the question of what lolla rossa was (it's a kind of lettuce).
Thank-you!
I guess your blogger friends must compose more sophisticated salads than your writing group. Go figure, huh?
ReplyDeleteI love the way the poem spreads itself from last April and out into some distant future. I love the contrast of the selfish torn hoarded minutes vs. spending lavishly. I adore the Quick Yellow Cake. The one given to the son... Bravo T.
ReplyDelete