Time of Year

Time of Year

By: Vivien Talon

It’s that time of the year.

The set of weeks tightly wedged between fall and winter

All leaves have already fallen, but

the goldfinches and robins have yet to leave for warmer days,

and their lullabies still grace us at dawn.

Dawn.

The sun against the moon, who refuses to leave her place  

hanging in the ebony night with her stars,

gentle yet unrelenting.

She sprinkles her dusty light over the trees and terrain,

unyielding against the sun.

When the moon finally gives up her place in the morning sky,

the sun can only manage to ooze a tired gold.

It colors the cloudy sky ruddy with a quiet brilliance.

The smell of dried leaves and crisp cold floods the earth,

all while the wandering wind whirls and warbles a weary hymn

with the waving trees and the waltz of nuts on the pavement.

Frigid air wraps itself around faces,

leaving noses pink and rosy,

as coat pockets swaddle hands,  

and clouds of condensation leave chapped lips.

Crunchy leaves,

swaying trees,

let’s break out the sweaters,

it’s that time of the year.