The Sincerest Pumpkin Patch

In the sharp gold dusk, he waits in the patch,

while costumed laughter wanders through the night,

each masked and sugared, every roaming child.

But he alone believes the Great Pumpkin

will stir the air and trouble up the wind,

and from the quiet earth at last will rise.

The brittle stalks lean in, as if to rise,

then settle back to stillness in the patch.

A rumor passes only as the wind,

thin as a promise thinning into night.

Still, he has written to the Great Pumpkin,

with all the earnest gravity of a child.

What keeps the vigil of a single child,

who wills an unseen miracle to rise?

A letter sent, addressed: Great Pumpkin—

buried in hope like seeds beneath the patch,

defying all the evidence of night,

defying even reason’s cooling wind.

Beyond the rows, they race the October wind,

each laughing, unencumbered child,

their pillowcases swelling in the night.

No one among them pauses for a rise

of anything more sacred than the patch

of candy crowned by tales of the Great Pumpkin.

Yet here he stays, apostle of the Great Pumpkin,

though nothing answers but the empty wind.

No stirring tremor travels through the patch,

no sign appears to vindicate the child

who aches to see the marvelous thing rise

and sanctify the silence of the night.

At last, the cold persuades the waiting night

to close its hand on dreams of the Great Pumpkin.

No phantom shape disturbs the earth to rise—

just leaves undone and drifting with the wind.

And still, within the steadfast heart of a child,

something unbroken lingers in the patch.

So through the night, the child keeps faith in the patch,

though mocked by wind and absence of the Great Pumpkin—

for hope itself is what continues to rise.