Nine more days

I remember a small boy in a parish I served years ago.  Ben was 3, the same age as my son that year.  As I was putting finishing touches on my Christmas sermon, Ben and his father appeared in my office doorway.  It was almost evening.  Ben wants to show me a particular spot of dark he found (his father explained), it*s somewhere in the building but he doesn*t remember exactly where.  And then they left, down an already darkening hallway, to find that particular piece of dark.  I often think of Ben and his dad, at this time of year, looking for a particular spot of dark, and looking for it together.

We stopped saving daylight later this year.

I am still not accustomed

To regular time.

Perhaps it is not really

Regular.

Evening finds me craving bedtime

Sooner,

Under the covers

Until I can drink morning coffee

In full light.

People ask if my schedule

Is full.

For accounting purposes,

It isn*t.

The light winds down,

And my schedule

With it.

For accounting purposes:

Nine more days to wind down.

Nine more days to notice

How dark it can get

Before turning

To light.

Before turning

Once again

To Light.