| In the Mountains In the mountains, green peaks part to reveal sprawling roadside batches of autumnal bounty. I love these tucked country shelves, spilling over bright, crisp afternoons with vidalia globes, earthy tubers, cinnamon stalks, and harvest confection warmth. Steam rises over hot cider. Rough as roots, grandfather hands shuck ears and whittle chips of hickory. Carolina wood dapples yellow sun under the bursting monster squash and twisting gourds, presenting their grotesque curves as the apogee of summer’s glory. Every good thing is here, from waxen combs immersed in honey gold to tart pimento chow chow. Best of all, the irrepressible roundness of those jovial spheres that blaze from the green grass. Proud pumpkins, the incarnation of the Mabon moon, I heft one after another, testing your robust goodness. One here is just right. A blazing planet of ripe satisfaction. "Why?" I am asked, "how do you know that this is to be the one?" How can I know except that I am made to glow round and happy with the site of you. What poverty to live a life without pumpkins! I shall roll you onto the porch where you will pulse orange, waiting for that moment when the candles’ flame illuminates from within your rinded center. written September 21, 2000 |