Sunday, March 8, 2015

The Hour Lost












The house is quiet
save for the baby's lullabye,
my pen scratching paper,
and a soft, sleepy sigh.

The leap our clocks took
as we lay sleeping
has haunted our morning.
The fatigue came creeping.

First went the babe.
Fussing marks her usual nap.
She fought only briefly
and was out in a snap.

Then went the wounded girl.
Her bones and muscles throbbed.
The dust of fairy dreamers
helped reclaim the hour she was robbed.

Lastly lay the man.
Though there be work to be done,
he rests his lovely head,
for he cannot resist the cushion.

And lost in the calm,
the writer cannot sleep.
For when no words are spoken
'tis then her pen will weep.


(Written 3.8.15)

5 comments:

  1. So fun! It's really true...everyone else can nap, but mommy.

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  2. Yes, we were robbed of one precious hour. I love the pull of your poem as it temps me to lie down and nap, too. It seems a popular way to spend the afternoon. I hope winter nods off soon, too.

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  3. This was really true. That hour we lost seemed to take away the energy of so many. Hopefully as the writer you were able to nod off as well. Very nice poem.

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  4. Fun ode to the family adventure into DST.

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  5. That leap haunted our day too. Thanks for the poem. :)

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