The holiday has come and gone,
and now we've reached the time
for fall décor to pass away,
it yields to tinsels fine.
But all the pumpkins I put out
will have one last hurrah,
it's time to hurl them in the woods,
while the ground is still thawed.
I load them in the garden cast,
tow them all through the yard,
heave them back behind my head,
then toss those pumpkins far.
They often have some rot in them,
explode when they hit ground,
stringy fibers flashing outwards,
scattering all around.
The critters will all come later,
consume the orange feast,
only shells are left the next day,
nature's a hungry beast.
A dumb, quirky tradition—yes,
but it makes me feel good,
like when I turn old Christmas trees
to sappy firewood…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem