pumpkin poem

all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
with the meek, brown eyes
who will be naming the wind
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
when the hours of day are numbered
listen
a few more windy days
up from the meadows rich with corn
love me at last, or if you will not
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
in and of itself
come down at dawn from windless hills
over the river they beckon to me