Yesterday we turned back the clocks,
such a small measure of time
to gain or lose,
so little in the end,
and yet, today, driving home,
already shadows quilt the hills,
cloaking pine and field,
but along the river, yellow poplars
still bright as streetlamps
fade only slowly.
I follow the line they trace
an earthbound echo
of the sun’s last glimmer.
The final finger of a trailing hand
slipping beyond the mountains
and for a season, gone.