Before now I fancied Autumn
for her gilded nostalgia,
her crisp maple fringes
dressed in borrowed color.
Bright only by reflection,
she lingered in long shadows
where I have always felt safe,
addicted to secondhand light.
But I have just been released
by the sincerity of Spring.
Her buds blink and bloom
to rest their gaze upon me.
Out of the sycamore shade,
I step trembling into birdsong,
adjusting my focus towards
the light that lent its color.
