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Posts Tagged ‘pumpkin’


 
 
Rather not to lift this rotting pumpkin,
its cavern a fuzzy quilt of black, green
and white circles, intricate thread-like
filaments, a moldering world I glimpse
through the sagging holes of the eyes
and the gap where the toothy smile
has curled in on itself. Such disgusting
deliquescence, this clear puddle beneath it.
Of course, the hands would resist to touch it,
and yet, there rises also this awe for the way
life feeds on itself to nourish the whole. What
inside me is ready for such transmutation?
What story, what rule, what old and sturdy should
is ready to change from something solid
and weighty into puddle, then into nothing at all—

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We plunge our bare hands into our pumpkins
and pull out seeds and strings and thick orange
goo; we scrape at the walls with grapefruit
spoons and all the while as we scoop at the earth-
scented mess, I never once think how I was dreading
this, this annual ritual I’m supposed to enjoy, but don’t.
But tonight it’s as if the part of me in charge of delight
has taken over and I remember I want nothing more
than to be exactly here on the floor with my girl
and my husband, sawing a giant smile into my pumpkin,
fueled by a gratefulness so honest it shines like a votive
through whatever inside me is hollow.

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Praise the pumpkin

with its orange flesh—

how it softens

and sweetens as it cooks.

Praise the way it lends

its rich and earthy density

to pie and bread, curry and soup.

The body responds

with a something akin to joy—

tethered by humble pleasure

to exactly this moment,

as if a flavor could help us

know god—

as if a taste could help us

become who we are.

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One Scent Memory

 

 

 

scent of roasting pumpkins—

all day they carve

my thoughts

 

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every pumpkin knows

you need just enough air

for the candle to burn,

just enough shelter

to keep the flame alive

 

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