Jack-O-Lantern

I love the autumn.
The setting sun casts
butternut glow on the buildings
backdropped by clouds of angry gray.
October is special.
Bean and H-Towne lost their moms in October.
I lost my grandnanny in October.
They live in the wind
and harvest hued leaves,
and in the smiles
of countless jack-o-lanterns.
Every year,
I pick out
a medium sized pumpkin
and join in the ritual.
I scoop out the stringy insides
and collect the football shaped seeds
to spread on a cookie tray.
I don't start carving
until I can smell them roasting in the oven.
I put all of life's loss
into each gourd.
Like the loss I felt
in fourth grade
when the middle school kids
wrenched the little jack-o-lantern
I made for my mom
and kicked it,
and smashed it,
and shoved me into its entrails.
I put all of the friends I've lost
and will lose
into the crooked smile
or the candle that lights
the design on the front
if I'm feeling artistic.
When it's done,
I put it on the porch
and take my time
passing it
every evening when I come home.
Let it mark the doorpost
like passover lamb's blood.
Let it smile at all of the loss
until it rots.
And let it faintly shine
it's Halloween beacon
to the neighborhood gobblins
making their sugared pilgrimage
from light to light
in the dark.