Anesthetization Of Pickles

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