Daylight lengthened in April.
And May. And June.

But I, cold-blooded as the house lizard
translucent and hiding in the corners
that bid its time through December
and darkened through spring
and grew fearless and shameless in summer
while staring back from every corner
and scurrying away just in time,
found not an hour added to my sandglass.

For the day lasts longer,
but goes by so fast.

A week late to defrost,
and the fridge is jammed.
A day late to slice,
and the pineapple inside ferments.
An hour late to store,
and the milk turns sour.

The basil has bloomed and its fragrance wafts.
But as the soil turns dry,
a colony of ants descends to lay their young.

I plant roses in the light to mark my love,
but the summer sun, shifting with the weeks,
and leaves them in the damp shade
and they bow their buds and wilt.

A stray black bitch with four brown socks,
Daisy, sees me and smiles,
But her foot is caught in glass
and now she needs ointment every night.

The summer is here, and to stay for some time.
But I found not a grain added to my hourglass.
For the day does last longer, but goes by just as fast.
Now I scurry faster, but with nowhere to reach,
I walk for longer.