None is so poor that he need sit on a pumpkin.
—Henry David Thoreau
To write as a field grows pumpkins,
to scribble page after page with an orange crayon,
to lose teeth and still smile,
to survive a frost that blackened acres,
to wake after surgery.
To live without rotting from within,
to ignore imperfections of the skin,
to be heavy, and still be chosen,
to please a strict vegetarian,
to end the day full of light.