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O, orb of autumn, round and ripe,
A canvas for the artist's gripe,
Your skin, a tapestry of hues,
From ochre gold to crimson ruse.

A beacon in the fading light,
You stand, a sentinel of night,
A silent witness to the chill,
That whispers through the air, so still.

Your form, a symbol of the year,
Of harvest's bounty, drawing near,
A promise of the feast to come,
When darkness falls, and shadows hum.

From humble vine, you grew so grand,
A gift from earth, a helping hand,
To fill our tables, warm our hearts,
And bring a touch of joy, that starts

With carving, laughter, and delight,
As children's faces, shine so bright,
With every scoop, a tale unfolds,
Of jack-o'-lanterns, brave and bold.

But more than just a festive face,
You hold a history, a grace,
From ancient times, a sacred seed,
Of life and death, a potent creed.

Your flesh, a source of life so sweet,
A soup, a pie, a savory treat,
A comfort food, a warming balm,
To soothe the soul, and keep it calm.

So, pumpkin, we sing your praises high,
For all the joy you bring, the sigh
Of contentment, as we gather near,
To celebrate the season, dear.

From fields of gold, to kitchen's heat,
You are a symbol, oh so sweet,
Of autumn's grace, and life's embrace,
A pumpkin, in its rightful place.

8/23/2024
Huch Poetry World Open Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Michael Huch

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