The plastic pumpkin
past its prime
as the Christmas decorations ascend.
Another year, another harvest gone past.
The season of spook — a ghost at last,
now on to the season of joy,
or so it’s called.
Don’t ask the turkey their opinion on the matter,
a holiday mostly forgotten,
washed over by the peppermint spice
and everything nice.
Just wishing Santa would slip on some ice.
Covered in snow,
wondering where the time goes.
So long until next September’s end,
you will be missed, my pumpkin friend.
November 5, 2021