I want the pumpkin to tell me something

...maybe how it is proud to be fat, 

maybe how it is willing to wait and wait 

for the right person to find it,

run their hand over it, and fall in love. 

Bumps and imperfections 

part of the deal.  Endearing, in fact. 

Maybe how it is willing to be cut, 

shaped into something new. 

Maybe how it can be scooped out, 

guts gooey and filled with seeds. 

That, actually,  the only way to get the seeds is to score it, 

force a sad toothy smile on its face. 

That the only way to make it light up, 

shine from the inside out, leaves a scar.  

That, even knowing that the squirrels will come, 

or the cold days will soften it, 

it is strong enough to sit there,  king of the stoop, 

glowing, glowing through the night.