Porcelain Pumpkins

Bleak season promised us those fresh,
Orange beauties
That finally match the trees. But they helplessly lie
Pierced and punctured,
Soaking up the juices of rain as if
To savor death.
They crumble in the throws of farewell
To their maternal garden, who offered
Much to their prosperity
While growing and
Untouched.
Hands. Sweet, young hands
And rubber boot feet remain
Our most likely blame, belonging to a face
Painted with streaks
Of telling mud
And a crooked smile. Everything about the boy
Is real.
A country crime committed by
Playful, beginning ambition,
Fingers pointed to his hidden hands and
Stifled laugh. You’re forgiven, little one,
More joy was abundantly received
From your act
Of spontaneity, and invasion of the garden,
Than our standing porch-
Whose steps are unlit with the soft, flickering
Amber glow.