Poetry Friday – Pumpkin Edition

Welcome to Poetry Friday, hosted right here today!

(Someone mentioned they had trouble finding the link to the widget. It’s way down at the bottom of the page, but also HERE for posting links and reading.)

It was exactly a year ago that I hosted the Poetry Camp Edition of Poetry Friday. It’s hard to believe that a whole year has gone by since that fun Poetry Camp day in Bellingham (October 1, 2016). That one-year anniversary, combined with the fact that this is the Thanksgiving weekend in Canada (second Monday of October) gives my hosting Poetry Friday today a meant-to-be feeling.

One of the things my husband and I especially enjoyed about our visit to Bellingham a year ago was walks along the Taylor Avenue Dock with coffee at Woods. There we ordered Cream Cheese Pumpkin Loaves to go with our coffee. Yum! When I got home, I tried to duplicate those tasty mini-loaves but never got them quite so rich and creamy.

Taylor Dock, Bellingham Bay (© 2016 by V. Nesdoly)

Boat in Bellingham Bay (© 2016 by V. Nesdoly)

Woods Coffee right on the waterfront, Bellingham Bay (© 2017 by V. Nesdoly)

That Bellingham memory plus the fact that it’s Thanksgiving in Canada this weekend has brought pumpkins to mind. So today, a little ode to pumpkins for my own Poetry Friday offering.

Pumpkins (© 2017 by V. Nesdoly)

To Pumpkin

You kept the new world’s
hungry pioneers and pilgrims alive
with your soft sweet flesh
and nutty seeds,
their feet warm with your rind
woven into mats,
their parties and celebrations
fueled by your beer.

But I am not stuck in the past
for you, orange gourd of October,
are still the icon of autumn
visiting our fall menus with spicy milkshakes
fragrant muffins, scones, and pies
infusing grainy loaves with gold
burnishing soups and stews,
ever the magnet of the latté lineup.

We see ourselves
in your well-formed circle
and with cold sharp blades
carve for you vacant eyes,
a triangle nose, a toothy grin
then plant within the fire of life
for one secret night
only to find your precious meat
shattered, your pulp a slurry
on a November sidewalk.

Thank you, large melon
for your stubby steadfastness
through famine to plenty,
your generosity from yellow blossom
to creamy flesh,
your patience with us
as we bake and boil
microwave and sauté
carve and create
you and your orange generation,
most tasty and handsome denizens
of the market’s harvest bin
and the farmer’s freckled patch.

© 2017 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

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