Daylight Savings
Seven-thirty, last weekend in April,
the sun, like a laggard child, still thumbs
the greening branches
to see how new the world’s become.
In this light it’s hard to admit so little
has changed. Maria, I say, kiss me.
When she does, I give myself up
to the pollen
falling from the light-streaked clouds,
tulips holding their white chalices open
to the air. I remember that first-evening
I was freed after supper,
amazed by the extra light,
the flat planes of houses aflame
with a radiance I’d never notice again.
The moon hung in the sky, a pale promise.
I hid beside the house, the maple
with its new leaves, green stars
gathering the darkness,
my mother on the red brick steps
cupping her mouth and I thought
I have light, I have light
in my pockets. I’ll save it.
~ Steven Bauer