The Dark Hour

They call it an hour gained but it all feels irretrievably lost. The Moon near full took precedence. Bluing no evidence there had ever been a summer.

The Dark Hour is the beginning of Winter in my mind. Calendric precision aside, the reversal of time turns my season cold from warm. The jet lag first week of a morning brain dawning in confused ache. The evening commute burned into a night grind of near midnight feel filled with head-on headlights refraction.

October ghosts me like a vaporous blur. How the hell does October feel so long ago in just a day?

October was fun. I met an old soul, and I met a young soul and the difference of interactions glowed luminous. Old souls remind me to go back. Think hard. Harder. Find the elusive meanings hiding in timelines. Hiding in plain sight. Young souls remind me to look ahead. Far ahead. Not too far. Bin notions I know it all. Start over. I don’t know anything.

And there were cookies. Homemade pumpkin cookies scenting home and hearth and heart in some weird Hallmark card autumnal celebration. One of those recipes where you just substitute tiny, chopped walnuts and why not try some dried cranberries and, of course, I added chocolate chips. Real men bake.

And there was poetry. My poetry. Having a creative, too familiar epiphany I just need to get my ass back into the chair and stop thinking and let it pour out of me. Embedding glutes brought newfound conclusion to my need for Muse. A key for me. And then I listened to a podcast with a brilliant writer, and he exclaimed the need for Muse. No shit. I get it.

And then it turned dark.

Turned into Winter.

In my mind.

Love, hate; that’s me and November. The other way around, I think. The hate preceding. She always starts with the temps too high, tempt teasing the shorts back from storage, but I’m not buying it. I’ve already scraped morning ice to get to the gym. And I’m digging drawers for hoodies and tossing flannels in the dryer ahead of crawling under a tartan blanket.

I’m ready for love.

Lounging with leftovers on the lingering holiday break. Books and coffee and afternoon cider steaming. Soon, I guess. Promises, promises.

All I know is right now it’s about maintaining a precarious relationship with my November dread. Searching the inside of body and mind for how to get along with one damn hour.

The Dark Hour.

1. Cover photo by Author.

2,3.4. Photos by Author.

© Copyright William Hazel, 2025