Pumpkin, yet to be carved

was me when in the first grade, waiting
for the teacher paints my face for the stage,
heart blooming, wondering,
trepidation,

was me at twenty, when on the airplane,
listening to the silent cry from
deep inside me, an exploring soldier,
bright-eyed,

was me at middle-age, fighting the war
of parental affairs, finance, wading
across the leech infested swamp, only to get
to another one, tenacity,

now, all is in the autumn pumpkin: seeds ripen,
crisp flesh, set aside for the next season, respite
in orange glow, wonder how my friends are doing,
occasional flare of reverie yet letting it all free.

©Byung A. Fallgren