I admit to being a bit foggy when I woke up on Nov. 5. I had just returned from a trip out of state and airplane rides always throw my internal clock off a bit, even if they don’t involve different time zones.

So, I looked at the clock and the backyard, and they didn’t seem to match. 7 a.m. and the sun was already lighting the sky and creeping under my eyelids. Then, I remembered the time change I’d made the night before, and lamented the end of daylight savings time. I closed my eyes again and entered that in-between world where a part of the brain is awake, but the other part resumes dreaming.

What happened to all the daylight I’d saved during the summer? Shouldn’t I have a daylight savings account like the savings account I had years ago, complete with a passbook updated monthly at a brick-and-mortar bank? If I had one, did I actually spend all my daylight and save none for the coming days when nine hours is all we get? I know that I haven’t always been the best saver, with money sometimes burning a hole right through my pocket (ahh … the sensual luxury of acquisition). Apparently, I’d done the same with my daylight throughout the summer, spending it minutes at a time, even on the cloud-covered and rain-drenched days when the sun was only a rumor.

But if I had managed to retain some summer daylight in my now-empty account, what would I spend it on? I decided I’d buy one day from the spring, one from summer, and one from early fall.

Spring sunshine is merely a promise of what’s to come, not strong enough to warm the earth and my bones fully, but capable of starting the engines from a dormant winter. Trees poke hopeful leaves from their buds, lilies provide hints of color to come, grass begins to show brilliant green, and dogwoods explode with their short burst of flowers. These signs make even a non-gardener like me long to dig in the damp earth and plant a seed or two, even if experience has shown that I don’t have the stamina to weed, water, and prune what I’ve started. But the sunshine is bright and warm on my back, and there is always more to come.

Summer sunshine provides the full treatment: heat, often humidity, and longevity, lasting late into the evening when just a few clouds can turn the sky into an unpredictable kaleidoscope, colors in the west better than any crayon box or paint-chip display. This is the sun that provides the very air we breathe, our abundant green plants inhaling carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen, and makes a screened-in porch and overhead fan a small piece of heaven, far superior to refrigerated air cycled through the vents. It’s the summer sun that can create a cloudburst that clears and cools the air, along with the menacing roll of thunder and harmless (I hope) lightning that underscores the mighty forces at work all around us.

Autumn sunshine has a different cast as it glances more obliquely off the earth, accentuating the brown and gold colors that come we associate with the season. It sparks memories rather than dreams, since we know it won’t last, not even through the early evening as temperatures drop quickly once the sun dives below the horizon. Daylight becomes precious in the fall, with outdoor activities and apparel adjusted, fall chores demanding attention, and trees dropping their clothing to reveal the bare skeletons beneath. It is a time for lost moments beneath a blue sky, prompting reveries and memories when all was right with the world. 

But wait a minute, I’m already in a reverie (and I think one at a time is enough), imagining my saved daylight, adjusting an internal clock, relishing what was and hoping for more. So today, two weeks later, I’ll simply give thanks for the bounty of our tables and the goodness of our earth (although it’s showing stress from our repeated attacks). The sun and clouds and seasons flavor our days and nights, demanding New England resilience and patience, forcing a rhythm that can’t be resisted or stopped. This Thanksgiving I’m thankful for the daylight, even if I couldn’t save any in my account. Maybe next year, I’ll be wiser and more frugal in saving my God-given light.

Allen Woods is a freelance writer, author of the Revolutionary-era historical fiction novel “The Sword and Scabbard,” and Greenfield resident. His column appears regularly on Saturdays. Comments are welcome here or at awoods2846@gmail.com.