After the Rains

by Tovah Strong

we walk towards pumpkins,
grown wild; magic, so large,
thirstily consumed. autumn
wet enough they breathe in
weight demanding bent
knees, the pocketknife
my mother offers from her raincoat.
we nestle the gourds'
muddy weight in
a wheelbarrow’s mouth. even
the twin pumpkins stemjoined;
slowgrowing peel split,
weeping where orange crawls
up ridges youthgreen.

&, too,
the birdpecked acorn squash—
we return for this.

later, the seeds we scatter:
our attempt to preform
critter calls; a tribute to last year’s
pulpy mass neighbors shot;
for hope earth grown soft despite the smoke
clouding light pixelated gray,
& rain not enough.

silt washed clay weighs
my boots; gloveseams;
the fruits’ ridged plains;
a leaf i stumble in
to—say: i'm sorry. i want to know
how you speak. i'm plucking
for meals. we'll sweeten flesh
baked on a clouded day
with butter & maple syrup shipped
here where maple trees do not grow,
nor pumpkins, ‘cept
this year’s strange autumn gift.

we own our rough clipping
balled inside uncertainty; our only
human taking; our whirling
continuance, boots to ground.

our neighbor bakes
pies; their dog eats out
a center.