The Pumpkin Field Exploded


Jamie Wyeth
The Headlands of Monhegan Island, Maine


The Pumpkin fields, a mile or two from where I live

were covered with dust, a few scraggly plants, ‘it’s dead for sure’ everyone who drove

by it said.


Crows and the bugs looked at the scraggly patch of earth and laughed at it.

They didn’t waste their time there, they flew over it or crawled over it and dug under it

and headed for the muddy river banks further down the road.


But the Sun visited that sad old field, faithfully everyday and it baked the earth

and cooked the scraggly little plants

and the field workers fed the plants water, an act of mercy.


So today I drove by that field

and expected it to be plowed under

but instead it was covered with green vines and leaves that were as big as my head.


The pumpkin field exploded

and I am counting the weeks until the pumpkin farm is opened

and I can bring home a few of those defiant gourds and name them

decorate them, but carve them?

Absolutely not.

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