This entry is part 24 of 63 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2011


The motet is a musical piece for several voices, where independent melodies may be seen to alternate with contrapuntal passages; dating from the 13th century, its name derives from the Latin movere, (“to move”), especially in its description of the movement of different voices against each other; or from a Latinized version of the Old French mot, “word” or “verbal utterance.”    


The year dwindles down in earnest, the swirl of
many voices decanting heat and timbre:
notes that move, fevered brass to diminuendo.

We hear them beating against the sky’s clear blue,
dark flecks like carets, bent to their patterned flight.
They’ll find their way to some other page, where wind

combines with other kinds of weather. Don’t rue
too deeply their disappearance; nor the fickle
hue of things steeped in the sun— that russet fruit

whose cheek has turned to blue; that gold persimmon,
its bitter juices puckering on your tongue.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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