Again I watch the sun rise east
climbing over me, stationary in my home,
and setting, as always, to the west.
If at the North or South Poles,
that’s not so. No East. No West.
Spring came early this year – a day
early astronomically speaking, but weeks earlier relatively,
based on my garden’s buds and shoots.
Perhaps not North of me and not
the Southern Hemisphere, where spring is autumn.
It’s a month of Saturdays in retirement.
Or perhaps every day is now Wednesday,
since weekend days still seem somehow special
hanging off my calendar in another color.
Are there still 24 hours each day?
Writing the Day 