A poem for November

Pumpkins

Curling vines pearl the earth;

the ancient tribe convenes

in twirly riot

of orange rotundity.

Their solar girth belies

their fragile origins--

light-gilded bees and

gossamer blossoms.

Waxed mirthsome now, they flirt

with anthropology,

bending the narrow rows

of nomenclature.

And He who broods fireballs

to prophesy frost

now calls them from fields

for our festival need--

So sing vine to village!

Come promenade porches, 

come reel the tired hillsides

and strathspey the paths--

Then, carapaces of sunset,

go jig round the nutmeg

and gingerly bow

to piecrust.

copyright 2009 Lynn Bruce

                                   (photos courtesy of Norcal Blogs and Earthbound Farms)