She was stunned at the revolution
of every year. Each time a season turned
she squinted, surprised. Did anyone believe
autumn would come again? And, too,
disorientation—she was alive this time,
this year, reason be damned.
Equinox and warmer light left
her eyebrows floating, dark
in the lake of her forehead.
(The leaves are actually changing,
the April air does feel like that.)
an old poem, revised for 2009
photograph by Alison Scarpulla
