The most time of the year (a poem)

Today’s entry is inspired by a mis-remembered line from a song…

In my head, the line gets shortened to ‘the most time of the year’
It’s always several months too late, though
seeing as how we turn the clocks back in March
(used to be April, but—stupid politicians)
and that’s when I get that extra hour of sleep
to make up for the hour we lost in November
(used to be October, but—stupid politicians)

But is that the most time of the year?
Time is so elastic that it can be hard
to know with any certainty
The last eleven months have dragged on
for a veritable eternity
whereas my birthday feels so short
it barely registers on the calendar

And I can never remember what the next line is
It’s the most time of the year…
Nothing—except my clue
that I’ve got it spectacularly wrong
not least of all because I can’t remember
the song the line comes from
since I don’t do the seasonal thing anymore

Stupid politicians…

(29 December 2017)