Chronic Roots1

A calendar is like a colander
Of days, a sort of sorting paraclete
Declaring metes, of time the arbiter,
Who hauls the slow before its judgment seat.

This catalog of days received its name
When Luna's birth was called by Roman priests
Anew each month, the debts then to reclaim;
The rest replete for gods with festive feasts.

Time waits for no one; month by month it rolls
Around the earth, a measure meet and sure,
Each night it shifts its shape and plays its roles;
It never neatly ends its yearly tour.

The moon and sun contend to rule the pulse
Of time, all marked on ticking dials round,
Or counted into squares by light that's false,
The days in ranks which ghostly months surround.

So heaven's watchmen clearly disagree;
The calendar is man's rough compromise
To join solar circuit by decree
With lunar cycles also fixed in size.

By night the cattle low; by day men see
That time is out of joint; the sky proclaims.
A calendar provides some sort of clarity,
Though oft ecclesiastical in claims.

Nota bene that the first and last stanza are marked by etymological tautology: from the same Indo-European root (kel-3) come calendar (Lat), paraclete (Grk), declaring (Lat), and hauls (Ger. cf. also hales); low (Germ), proclaims (Lat), calendar (Lat), clarity (Lat), ecclesiastical (Grk), claims (Lat). Click here to see!