November 3, 2019; November 4, 2018; November 5, 2017; and so on

this annual deprivation always makes me anticipatorily hungry: even when i’m gum-deep in grease-dappled chicken and sucking spinach from my smile, the pang strikes undeterred, a ravenousness that like a puppet’s string yanks my nose Up to sniff the air in search of sustenance. naturally there’s none—i’m salivating for something that only the sky could serve. the reason why’s a lie we all accept, yeah, but with regards to the name i remain confused: if it’s daylight savings why hasn’t anyone squirreled away a slice of light in a scrunched-up napkin, crumbs of luminescence littering their purse? or preserved it rind-to-rind with summer-supple slices of apricot so that you and i can lick the mingling syrup from our fingers, our cracking lips, and be nourished? i’m starved sensewise also, lately; it’s hard to see anything when dark’s the default and light is a brief billet-doux. if i’m lucky (i’m not) i’ll be sated, at earliest, by equinox. but never mind: til then i will drink deeply of gold and of honey, so that i might sing my own sun.