To Marcy Howard
A pumpkin is an inanimate thing,
Used for food or decoration,
And at a certain time of year,
Its flavors used in preparation,
It signals Halloween is close,
That the holidays approach,
And a pumpkin fosters memories,
As the past seems to encroach.
Many things are flavored with,
The pumpkin and accompanying spices,
From pie to coffee and other things,
Memories cut up in slices,
At Halloween the pumpkins carved,
A symbol for the night,
Eyes glowing as candles burn,
Filling the darkness with eerie light.
As the pumpkin is hollow now,
Can it feel with its eerie stare,
With its insides completely gone,
Is there any thing left in there,
A jac-o-lantern adorns my arm,
Permanently etched in ink,
A reminder of my pumpkin spice,
And the woman of whom I think.
I’ve become that carved out pumpkin,
Only love is left inside,
And all the things that we discovered,
It seems are now denied,
You took my heart and now its yours,
But being heartless is kind of nice,
As memories bring me thoughts of you,
My sip of pumpkin spice.