Gifted

It’s the movement of rock in the molten core

and the hair’s breadth shift of the moon

that has foxed the atomic pulse of caesium

(that element, accurate to some number further

than the furthest planet, its root the Latin

for sky blue; I can see it in December’s clear roof

as we undertake our pilgrimage back to sun)

and so, its clock gifts an extra second to this year.

May it drop like a pebble in the lake of itself,

be as subtle an alteration as a beat

before the reptilian brain reacts,

be an extra breath that gathers

more seconds to itself or, may it be

that silent moment of conception.

As published in Southword.