Ode to Pumpkin

By

Swell of the garden,

you pull the harvest moon

clear to your soul.

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Gold shatters to smooth sparks

embedded in silken strings.

Nourished by green vines

frozen in elegant dance

upon moist soil,

your radiant flesh

swaggers.

Even when you are hollowed,

your sparks replaced

by waxy flame,

your skin slowly sagging

to slump,

your spirit prevails,

dreaming of wheels

and shining white horses.

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