Through the miracle of the clock
We strive to move a bit of sunlight
To the other end of the day.

Our bodies
And our babies
And our pets 
Comply more slowly
Having other ways 
Of experiencing time.
But they adapt.

The cows in the field
Don’t even notice.
It is not a change for them.
Nor for the crickets
Or the owls
Or those pesky barn swallows. 
They continue to dance
Within the arms of another.

While we are torn away
To march with commerce.
We sit within the steel frames 
Of our creations,
Obedient to the demands
Of our responsibilities.

Our possessions
Which, by that same mechanism,
Have somehow turned 
And seem to possess us,
Claiming the bulk of our time. 

So, each spring we lose an hour
Only to find it again in the fall.
And we carry the facsimile of control
Into one more year.

Sometimes I envy the cows. 

photo by marneejill retrieved from Flickr per cc BY-SA 2.0