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It smells like pickles green in Autumn
Aromas arise like Frankenstein in formaldehyde
Tubular, somewhat spiny, objects plump
Ready to be plucked at midnight

Be not pickled in perpetuity
Be not afraid of the moon in gravity
Be not drowned in your own juices
Harvest arrives on time within the margins

Gardeners gather up the treasures in the fields
On gentle breezes in their mysteries
Command attention to details
Wherein the Earth gives up its riches

Auras of famished women come with hunger
Peculiar are the agencies of pickles
Beyond our comprehension of pregnancy
Textures and substance stand there implied
More than compromised, more than desired

Commingling in the thickening brine
There comes a time for pickles to arrive
Baptized in juices cloudy
In favorable conditions facing south
Towards flavors drenched in dill savory

Splendor is found in jars kept from light
From tidal forces and moons influence
And sun’s petty jealousies
With lids turned right, twisted tight
Held by forces anesthetized
Pregnant with possibilities

Pickles scream at insatiable women
In pain with a blossoming womb
As plump as their cries in child birth allow 
And a hunger for life itself consumed

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