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Poem

Aren't grandchildren marvelous! Spoil them just rotten, 
then give them back, but they are never forgotten.

My maternal instincts are rekindled and who 
best to let them experience the joy I knew.

One of my preferred seasons is pumpkin season, 
tis for Halloween if for no other reason 

than to take them out to a pumpkin patch and glean 
their own monster orange pumpkin for Halloween.

I had missed the sounds of laughter of my children, 
but my grandchildren have filled the empty cauldron.

We brought the pumpkins home. For their very first time, 
curious, they plunge in, eviscerate the slime; 

doesn't seem all that tasty or appealing at first. 
With some fallacious explanations they immersed

scooping out its seedy, nasty stringy insides. 
They love to tantalize; well, I'm one who decides.

So many questions they asked to bewilder me.  
A mass with scarlet paint an ugliness they see. 

Candles flicker a whirling vortex of smoke at first; 
just in time for the spooky night of October 31st.



6/21/2018

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