Each Year — Summary

Leaves fall like words on a page, like punctuation marks in time, so autumn becomes a way of reading the passing years. Each summer ends, geese migrate, and things that once felt firmly tied begin to loosen. There is a gentle sadness in that letting go, but not only sadness. The speaker lingers on an “orange ambiguity” where a falling leaf and a butterfly can almost be confused. Both flutter; both are carried by the air. Yet one is coming to an end—dry, crinkled, withering—while the other suggests freedom and flight. The mood is quiet and reflective, poised between accepting decay and remembering that movement can also mean release. Time passing feels less like a blunt fact than a delicate, unresolved image.