The End Of October
There’s a small, soft, white spot on the pumpkin.
I push it with my index finger, it yields to my touch.
It’s too late to carve now.
I put a candle in the place where the pumpkin
should have sat, fat and grinning. Then snuff
it out, and wait in the dark at the window.
Mist rises steadily from the ground where
wolves once ran and I can hear the dead
turning in the mud.
On the doorstep, I have lain sacks of apples
and nuts for those that wander.
Light fades faster now. Birds are taking life
more seriously. The pines rattle. Winter is circling.