Slippage
Byron Hoot

It is snowing and time has slipped again,
a not uncommon phenomenon anymore
but still unnerving when a season is interrupted
in its flow and what is next delayed the way
this snow is falling.  Regression.  Yes and yet no;
this slippage and this snow joining just so
last night, today, probably not tomorrow.
I can’t say that about that other slippage though,
that’s something whose beginning and end
I know nothing of until one arrives then leaves
the time in-between unknowable and always
different.  I may deeply sigh, smile sadly, laugh
with a moment lingering memory relishes,
forget where I am, say a wrong name,
smile like a fool and suddenly find I am where
I am – the slippage like this snow . . . something
out of season for just a little while.