Pumpkin Time

Katherine McLeod Searle

Bonfires and saddle shoes
kicky wool shorts
juicy Red Delicious apples
and smoldering piles of singed leaves
blur together, grey
like the ashy tendrils of smoke
bleeding into the autumn sky.

Fat little hands holding up
pirate sleeves, play at swashbuckling,
and hold tight to my leg
on the porch lit sidewalks.
Quick forays up to crowded doorways—
running back to me, victorious. Candy
clutched tightly, eyes glittering
like the glowing jack-o-lanterns
guarding porches.

No more costumes; October
just a month. Evening school work,
rewarded with caramel apples,
comfort food from Mom.
Something about the air,
heavy with expectancy and death.
Pots of chili and juicy rump roasts,
a mother's clutching tightly.

You rake the leaves, taking over
for your father, proud of your methods.
The crisp air enervates you—
something of the swashbuckler returns
as you waltz me, reckless and in control,
through carefully constructed piles of leaves.

I walk through the sharp air,
soggy with light, fragrant rain,
the heat of your splayed hand
clutching my leg
imprinted in my memory
as we brush past each other
on the way to the cars.

Katherine McLeod Searle