Pumpkins
Baby.
You are so simple. September. You can fit in my tiny hands.
Green and yellow decorate. White streaks. Tiny bugs.
You are a child like myself, but one day you will grow and die.
And I will forever be here, nothing but a child.
You are humble, and quite. Tough. Thick skin on the infant.
Many mistake you for ugly. I know you are joyful, my pumpkin.
Pumpkin Patch.
First grade.
October.
Cold. Crisp. Clear.
Vivid. Orange, ocher yellow. Dirty dirt as far as the eye can see.
Purple blue and grey stain the skies with awkward mountains.
Plump, pure. This is a right of passage. An awakening of autumn.
Dry brittle and broken the hay lays flat.
Jackolantern.
Black dark through the window. This is night.
Laughing with knifes. One two three four. Yellow and red spots so small make this orange.
Draw. This is easy. This is fun. I am young.
Pale innards cover the kitchen. Cover our hands. This is family.
Black triangles. Ridged teeth. Fic the bic and there’s the light.
It is late. The dead dog whines. Those trees sway.
Dream of funny faces and sweet pie. Hot wax drips onto the porch.
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