One year.
Three hundred and sixty five days as decreed by the Julian calendar.
The Gregorian calendar says it’s a few hours different.
In ancient times we lived by the moon; watched for North,
aligning our open eye to the up-ended rock; the other squeezed shut.
Ptolemy had a good crack at getting it right, unaware
that Hipparchus had already done it in 150 B.C.
When somebody whispered it in his ear he threw his scrolls
into a lake. Sulked, blamed the moon for life’s unfairness.
My year is marked by the day your heart succumbed to the strain
put on it; stopped squeezing the blood around your body
and gave one last muscular shrug. Three hundred and sixty four days
later I stand by your grave and watch three blackbirds fighting.