The Pumpkin Kid
Autumn is my favorite time, its chill,
its cider smell, its bluest skies
devoid of moisture. Season or age,
nothing has a sharper edge ...
autumn, autumn, autumn.
Come fall, my son's wife
lines their drive with twenty
of these slick orangey globes,
and from age ten or so,
my granddaughter has used them
to make the pies for our Thanksgiving
gathering of 50 or more.
In the Ukraine, pumpkins promote
virility, good health, but a girl can
reject a man's advances
by handing him one. She has also
done a lot of that in her young life.
I love the one I buy for my porch
the crisp fall colors of pumpkin,
gourds and Indian corn.
But later I find it good only for soup
or roasted seeds, such a stringy mess,
fibrous and slimy inside. It seems odd
to ask her how she does it,
to ask her to pass on
reverse generational wisdom.
But since she charms me, too,
I'll not demure when others say
they much prefer the coming of spring.