I could use the extra hour to write a story,
or pass it penning lyrics for a song.
I might count each of the seconds very slowly,
to make the minutes linger on and on.
I could view the extra hour as a bonus,
as added time to read and think and be.
Three thousand and six hundred extra moments
a gift that comes from nowhere, burden-free.
But I look out at the slowly lightening morning,
at the windows of the houses down the street,
and wonder if behind those tight-drawn curtains
sits another woman wishing she could sleep.