Five Pumpkins

The pouring rain has finally arrived. I had anticipated it days ago, so the lawn got mowed, the garden tended, the rain gear located and readied for instant use. The amber and ocher leaves of the Oak, the crimson berries of the Holly, the purple blooms of the mums are brilliant against the cold grey sky. The branches swing heavily, laboriously in the current of a wind the weatherman termed gusty, sending leaves to float aimlessly through the air, finally landing, and flipping along the soaked lawn until imbedded in a rusted barbed wire fence. A small rabbit huddles under the fence, nibbling on the tall clover my mower failed to reach.

The red-winged blackbird, American Goldfinch, Morning Dove, Northern Cardinal, and Robin are no where to be found; they left my feeders weeks ago. They knew it was time to find warmer climes. The grey squirrel lingers about the tall oak, foraging for nuts in the wet grass, twitching & cautious, scavenging and then climbing the old wooden fence post. Quick jumps, flying through the air, back up the tree and depositing his stash, he is back down again. That bushy tail seems impervious to rain.

Five pumpkins sit stoically clumped together at the corner of the porch, a fine mist building on their orange skin, slowly decaying from the inside out. One day soon, on a sunnier, joyous day, their collective core will be hallowed to the high pitched squeals of laughter, excitement, in anticipation for autumn celebration. Candles will be placed behind the carved frowns and happy faces, setting a glow to warm our spirits. Infused with sugar and ginger, the baked sweet flesh will be served as a small symbol commemorating our harvest of summer gardens and rest our summer ambitions. With each delicious bite, we will lament last season's passage next to a toasty, roaring fire and anticipate rosy cheeks and frozen finger tips bitten by cool winds but warmed by endless cups of hot cocoa or mulled spiced wine. Hopefully, we will be blessed to do this among a wide circle of friends and an even larger amount of laughter.

But it is raining today. No fire roars in the hearth and my housework waits. The only sound that permeates this cold house is that of brass chimes hanging above the pumpkins, clanging in the wind. In thirty minutes the children will burst through the door, drenched from their short journey off the school bus steps on to the top landing of the porch, breaching this calm interlude with their boisterous account of another amazing day at school.