Pumpkin Field

Stems grow where they were not planted,

For the earth guided them left.

Wishes I thought I had were not granted,

For the river knew my heart and its cleft.

The pumpkin field became my body,

As the seeds sprouted all over me,

And covered my old gray hoodie.

My life cried out to be at sea.

And as the harvest came to pass,

My bones grew brittle as they rotted.

But gentle hands wove through the grass,

It was a feeling I’d nearly forgotten.

They were the hands of seasons past,

Of one wish left unanswered.

They planted seeds that grew at last,

Within that cleft; oh water me great dancer.

These rites of spring that sprout the field,

With bracelets and beads.

Soon pumpkins rot, and I must yield.

Recall the hands that planted pumpkin seeds.