NOVEMBER’S TEXTURE

The wale of a corduroy calendar hikes along herringboned pavement, hears unshaven whiskers scratch toddler’s fingerprints, watches soles

scuffle over street pavers as Hopper’s tender light sprays warmth on russet brick walls at dawn.

A west wind cracks that last scarlet leaf from a noisy maple branch. These heavy north clouds, purple layers of slate, slide over sheared hay fields, cut

stubbles awaiting snow. By the fence, the shed skin of a corn snake catches on barbed wire. Expired paint dries, chips peel from splintered barn

boards. Seven buzzards spread on six limbs of wind-scratched sycamore, the weathered breath quakes the bark like my mother’s ancient face.

November hums the oak coda, the hymn of acorns, the dance of Beaver Moon rising. But the leaf sins, separates from the twig and falls, only

to become whole with earth.