There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.—Robert Frost
I head to the pumpkin patch
in search of perfection
no two-pointed ladder needed
here no reaching heavenward
just an earthbound stumble
through a tangled maze of roots
thick as an umbilical cord
a ready trap to capture
an unwitting foot or ankle.
Camouflaged beneath green lobed
leaves veiny and serrated
hollow shells squish and ooze
underfoot. Others still firm roll
like landmines as far as their roots allow.
I step and pause then stoop
turn over a flash of orange ribbing
lift it from the bed where it has been
growing for 100 days and 100 nights
a bed first firm and sunbaked
now cold and frosty
to examine its soft spot.
Perfection is a misshapen
orange sphere sitting upright
on its own. I snap the hollow
stem from the root-a handle
too bristly to grasp- and
cradle my rotund treasure
in both arms.
OCTOBER HILL, October 2022
Elise Chadwick 