Before I’ve even considered the knife,
soil has pressed into the last pumpkin to be picked
the faint features of a face,
one that has been turned away from the sun
all growing season. Clods of dirt engraved the eyes,
the beginnings of a nose,
the space between ridges a mouth.
I should do what the garden suggests:
plant as best as I can.
soil has pressed into the last pumpkin to be picked
the faint features of a face,
one that has been turned away from the sun
all growing season. Clods of dirt engraved the eyes,
the beginnings of a nose,
the space between ridges a mouth.
I should do what the garden suggests:
plant as best as I can.
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