Coleman hauls industrial-sized buckets
full of acorns from towering white oaks
that bestew the woodland acreage
that sprawls up our small mountain home.
Smooth & dull yellow, their elliptical caps
rattle as he clutches the wire handles.
 
We are on the late-side of the pandemic,
thank goodness, but our neighbor John
died quarantined & Joe, our good friend,
was one coughing fit away from the grave. 
Recalling Coleman’s diligence, I want to recite 
his name along with others, surviving & dead.
 
He leaches the acorns, changes the murky
water five times a day. At first it is like dark wine
then it starts to resemble weak tea & after four days
it as clear as moonshine. Using a push-down 
grinder he mills the nutmeat into a coarse flour
& spoons the pancake batter on a sizzling griddle.