Déjà vu

It was October.
My English teacher in a
Sudden reverie
Fled weeping from our classroom
Eyes glazed, only to return

Seemingly restored
Indeed philosophical.
“In measuring life”
She said, “I do not believe
That time moves in a straight line

But rather it is
A never-ending spiral
On which we all cross
And then cross again our path,
Sensing that queer resonance

We call déjà vu.”
Perhaps she said this with the
Hairs stiff on her neck
Some chance detail whispering
She had taught this class before.

This morning, with the
Scent of rain whipped in across
The urban prairie
I stand, my neck electric
And hear her voice behind me.