In Pursuit of Poetry

Spring Forward

I sprung forward the other day.
Lost track of time along the way.

I was either an hour early or an hour late.
As I left the daily starting gate.

The paradox that is our track of time,
makes no sense in universal rhyme.

Cows don't know when to come home,
their milk comes too early in the loam.

Cows don't know when to leave their home,
their milk comes too late and turns to foam.

The sun comes up, and the sun goes down.
But it's just the earth revolving like a clown.

An evil clown with its head spinning around,
the deception of time moves without a sound.

So if you spring forward, but find yourself behind,
consider yourself lucky, for the time that you find.

Hidden in the clock, synchronized in orbit,
to engineer your lives, until your final obit.

Springing forward and back in semiannual swings.
Time masters us, among other things.