No more colors until spring

It is in my interest to take note
of the draining colors of the world
and notice the hues that take their leave
as light fades slowly from the skies,
only not so for the trees, the leafy trees.
Their colors warm while everything else cools,
except the autumn vegetables.
The light now less bright
as if the chill in the air somehow
removes the dazzling sharpness from the sun's glare,
like winter has finally caught up with sprinting summer
pulling warmth and effulgent vegetation back behind
the dawn of winter's recalcitrance.
I imagine the oppositions of the year,
and dream sometimes the sun matriculates
like a child with a private education,
flying away south with the squawking geese
while annuals furlough
in the call of the ground swallows.

And then in a few months, when winter, darkness,
and rain have had their way with me,
the grey-dark skies slapping my face with wet fingers
reaching down between my layers,
suddenly the crocus and the blue buds on the trees
will cool as they emerge, when temperatures rise from
beyond the ground, light inflorescent at last.
Just like a stray image from a forgotten dream,
or a stranger that promises to stay for a time then
disappears with hardly a word or a gracious note.