Two days after we fall back,
my little atomic clock by the bed has not,
stubbornly clinging to the saving
time that yields more light.

I have to set it on the windowsill
as it waits—like E.T.—scanning the skies
for the right craft to wander overhead
and connect. Then it will change.

If I try to force it back an hour,
it revolts, shifts back to the time
it’s known for six months,
reluctant to shove into the darkening,
these two months leading to
the winter solstice—

after which, we, like the sky,
begin to brighten a bit
more each day.