“Pumpkin Time,” New Era, Aug. 1981, 24
The porch is stacked with the bulging round pumpkins
The watering pail lies upside down on the pump.
A chilly breeze whistles through its hollow insides
and rattles its thin, bent handle.
The rusty tractor rests in the field.
Sneaky morning glory creeps like snakes up its old wheels.
Soon daddy will slice the pale, crisp corn stalks
and stack them by mother’s golden heap.
Sometimes the mountains whisper summer,
but then shout fall with brilliant red and orange hues.
The season is fickle.
Blistering days melt into icy nights,
And the crackling air smells of bonfires,