"There are years that ask questions
and years that answer."
- Zora Neale Hurston
The litmus sky
is the color of bluets
at the onset,
and by the denouement of day,
reddens like forged iron.
The leaves fall
like whirling dervishes
to signal Autumn.
The trees undress
like she—sky-clad.
Through the fourth watch
of the longest night
of November.
She supplicates, teary-eyed,
and her answer:
Sunrise.
