On our way to the pumpkin patch
Through the Redwood Valley we drove,
A place I hadn't seen in so long,
Only in the plantation of dreams.
It was just like I remember it,
A string of memories bonded by place:
The green fields, empty baseball fields,
Popular wineries, flowery roundabouts,
Golf courses, country houses for rent,
Strands of poplars streaming along the slough.
In my dreams the valley is always bigger,
The fields seeming eternal,
The mountains oddly more visible,
Especially Our Majesty Rainier.
There's something exciting
About picking out pumpkins on a farm
Instead of at the comfort of a store,
When the leaves are changing color,
The winds pick up and the rains release.
Towering sunflowers and corn stalks
Surrounded the patches in a coven of Autumn,
Monsoons of red, yellow and green everywhere,
Tendrils of the Earth unfurled from the ground
Those rotund orbs of orange, whose fates
Are to be hollowed out by Halloween,
Carved into icons of death, softly lit
To resemble the ghost of a damned Irishman.
Today the wind blows stronger,
Commencing the mass exodus destined
By weary leaves leaving their trees
Like elders who sacrificed their health
For the longevity of the family.
Let's go back to the valley at night,
Where the wine flows thinner than blood,
Where the river moves silent as a spirit,
Where no graveyard rests under moonlight,
Only memories exhumed from the brain,
Corpses of thought wrapped in linen
To feed the underworld forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment