The last pumpkin lingers in the garden.
No longer green, not quite vermilion,
it resists harvest.
About this poem
One of those, “as soon as I took the picture, I knew there was a poem in it” poems. It was taken at the home of dear friends.
At my best, I move slowly in my life. I like my change constant and slow. I work my way into things. I didn’t always work that way, but age improves somethings.
Your half baked pumpkin,