• Emma Zwickel

As the Seasons Change

My mother used to claim that

I was born with autumn leaves speckled across my hair,

fall ingrained in us even in a time

when it twirled towards September’s ballet.

I was born soon after tower fell onto tower,

crashing towards ground zero where

we laid, dispersed into the autumn leaves.



Maybe winter caught us.

Perhaps we caught ourselves

but as I’ve slowly grown into the shoes that

the world expected to me to fill,

I’ve learned that love fastens us to ourselves

like a seatbelt coiled into itself over and over and over again

until we are reformed.

We are chained, we are changed by the stars that dare show

their face each night,

the moon that hovers over it all,

harnessing in beams of starlight.

And you,

you were my spring awakening,

the light at the end of a tunnel

lit by only

the light leftover in my eyes.

Part of me still wonders if all through my life,

you have been in disguise, hibernating,

liberated by the sweet scent of nectar and maple,

springing into step like the hare who notices

it's the journey, his reformation that matters all along.

You were the siren’s song drawing me out of the snow,

where I froze, buried deep.

Now, I realize that while I shuddered underneath, I was thawing,

drawing inspiration from the way

twenty-four hours is barely time enough,

how instead we are chosen to grab onto the nearest branch

and pull ourselves up.

We change seasons.

We reform.


And at the end of it all,

as winter nipped at our noses,

summer tickled at our toes.

The towers might have fell,

But together we rose,

reformed from ashes and autumn.

When the leaves change colors,

so do we.

We branch like the arms of a million trees

and rebuild, recollect,

reform.


And maybe now,

I realize that my mother

might have been right and

I was born with autumn leaves

speckled across my hair

after all.


Let the posts
come to you.

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