November hymnal (4)
On a cold November morning a man’s
Soul puts on his fifty year old body like a scar
Of his twenty year old’s dream of this morning.
The dream itself was a jacket that wouldn’t fit
Any future. The man steps under the maples
Across the street as the sun takes out its
Paintbrush; he chases leaves to the grass.
His children join him, stuffing their pockets
With color that will never go to ground.
With every stumble he gets younger.
With a gold and red season between his fingers
He takes off his jacket and leans
Like a bare tree against the sky.