Any child knows the hazy,
scorching months
of June and July are the
shortest of all, even though
the summer light barely
fazes the bats that
flitter from treetop
to building, nigh onto eleven.
Even though the size of the days
is the same on
the page underneath
a painting of a beach at sunset.

Any bride knows the
days before her wedding have
fewer than twenty-four
hours. Is there ever
enough time
to decide once and for all?
Should the ribbon
be ⅜” wide or ½”? Where
are enough lilies to
adorn the entire chapel?
Who should sit by Aunt Harriet,
now that Uncle Hiram has gone?

All teachers know that
December is
the longest month,
reviewing material long forgotten
and corralling kids who
are counting
down the days until
winter freedom and
lavish gifts arrive, along with
family traditions, homemade
treats, and new clothes and toys
from long-lost relatives.

New grandparents think they know
the longest month is the last one,
the tenth one, as they wait
for a call, a text, some news
that it has begun!
The clock takes its own
time until it bestows on
gray and white-haired
parents new identities and calls
them into a world of coddling
and cuddling, spoiling
and loving one more time.

Even so, it’s the widows who
know the truth: Every page
and hand deceive.
It’s the mind and heart that
are the keepers of time.
They blur the seconds, minutes,
hours and the lines between
today and yesterday, making
clock faces just a set of numbers
and calendars only useless paper
to glance at as they live
and relive their golden lives.

No, the calendar and clock lie; the
heart and the mind hold
the keys to time.