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Ode to Pumpkin

Swell of the garden,

you pull the harvest moon

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clear to your soul.

Gold shatters to smooth sparks

embedded in silken strings.

Nourished by green vines

frozen in elegant dance

upon moist soil,

your radiant flesh

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Even when you are hollowed,

your sparks replaced

by waxy flame,

your skin slowly sagging

to slump,

your spirit prevails,

dreaming of wheels

and shining white horses.

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