8. PUMPKIN
In the middle of November
smashed on the rocks
at the edge of the island
a bright thing caught my eye
it was a pumpkin half.

I walked to the bookstore
in a rain that silently
filled the air.
All the lights were off or dim
and there was nothing to do
but walk to town and back.

In every ordinary moment
looking at trash on the ground
by the bulldozers in the dusk
I forget myself
and see universes forming.

Pulled back out
from a dream
of rolling landscapes.
I face the moment.

Looking at garbage
pretending the wind speaks
finding meaning in songs,
but the wind through the graves
is just wind.

Crawling over
the wet rocks
with dark sand in my shoes
to where the orange
pumpkin I found
cracked open in the waves,
its emptiness
loose.

Copyright: SC PUBLISHING DBA SECRETLY CANADIAN PUB.
Writer(s): Phillip Whitman Elvrum