I Am A Pumpkin

—live your life in our field—a Petrarchan sonnet

My body swells pear-round beneath Fall light.  

My freckled flesh they deem not quite germane; 

A picker’s blade took all the darlings; pain  

is ours—to stand unworthy of their delight.  

Old sister robin pauses, late in flight.  

We two know Spring will never bloom again.  

We trade small hopes, our fears, what time we gain;  

Our last tears dry, she fades into moonlight.  

My body’s not their art, I choose earth not seed;  

I’ll revel in my rapture, frost’s caress, melt to ground.  

My gold flesh, furry feeds feast, awake, arise.  

Imperfect? My sacred womb, my children freed.  

Perfect? Entombed in plastic bags millennia bound.  

Join us—the wild children—for winter’s rise is wise.