November 26, “Texture,” from NOVEMBER: A Poem in 30 Days

 

maple leaf

Texture

 

November feels like the wale of a corduroy calendar,
a hike along herringboned pavement,
hearing the unshaven whiskers scratch fingerprints,
seeing soles scuffle over street pavers,
as Hopper's tender light sprays warmth
on russet brick walls at dawn.

A west wind breaks that last scarlet leaf
from a noisy maple branch.
These dark north clouds, purple layers of slate
slide over vacant hay fields, the stubbles wait for snow.

By the fence, the shed skin of a corn snake
catches on barbed wire.
Expired paint dries, chips peel from splintered barns.
Seven buzzards spread on six limbs
of wind-scrubbed sycamore, 

the winter breath on the bark quakes 
like my mother's ancient face.

November stirs at the oak coda,
the hymn of acorns, the route of rising moons.
But the leaf sins, 
falls, 

separates from the twig
only to become one with earth.

skin

excerpted from
NOVEMBER: A Poem in 30 Days
in memory of the last month of life of Lester C Coe (1925-1978)

About orangeacorn

We are, I believe, and everything is, in perpetual unfolding/enfolding/evolving. By surface appearances, we're in turmoil and fearfullness, but in fact our existence is on the edge of a new way, beyond the US versus THEM we have grown with. I encourage you to join me over coffee or tea in face-to-face encounters. I call this exercise, "CAFFEINE COMMUNION: Encounters with Paradigm Pioneers." I'm a Columbus, Ohio husband, father and citizen. I practice string band sounds from the ridges of Pocahontas County, West Virginia, the vortex of the ancient drone.
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