Robert+Morgan+Poem-HK

Pumpkin by Robert Morgan

By fall the vines have crawled out twenty yards from the hill coiling under weeds. The great cloth leaves have shriveled and fallen. No sign of a harvest. No way to tell where the pumpkins are scattered except wade into the briars and matted grass, among hornet nests and snakes, parting the brush with a hoe. Or wait a few weeks longer till the weeds dry up, burned by frost, and huge beacons shine through like planets submerged and rising.