October ‘25

Pumpkin Glory

Their little hands wrap around

the wheelbarrow handle

nearly, but not completely

two of them on the right handle

and I on the left

They heave it to their shoulders

I lift it to my hips

We push forward on the dirt road

that cuts through ripened fields

bobbing and weaving like a drunken

one-wheeled bin

till we reached our row.

Weeds knee high

the farmer breaks our trail

like an angel leading us to glory,

and then the shouts of praise:

PUMPKINS!

They scramble from one to the next

greeting pumpkins like lost souls found.

We heave and toss them in wheelbarrow

as we stumble upon one and then another.

Smooth orange pumpkins ready for candle lit faces,

some bedazzled with witch-nose warts,

and tiny gourds, misshapen, twisted

in deep forest green and sunflower gold.

We fill the bin with plenty

plucking them from the maze of vines,

meaning no offense to the others left behind

who lay content on this generous

soil we’ll remember later when we pull off our boots.

We retrace the stomped route

exuberant, satisfied, energy on the highest setting.

The load back is cumbersome

the wheelbarrow bursting like

a fisherman’s net.

The road leads us back, then

with a rumble we dump out

this heavy load of goodness.

Our hearts and minds

now little wheelbarrows

full of joy and memories we will carry

till we trek the last road

and the final angel takes us

back to glory.