Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.3

Crate overturned. Gourds tumble—
humped, hollow, stubborn as small planets.
Colors bruise—pumpkin, pewter, lime—
skins pocked like weathered faces.

Sun and rain carved them. Hands did not.
They rattle when nudged, sound like loose teeth.
Cold breath comes through the field; leaves scatter.

I cup one: its skin is dry, warm where the day held it.
No sermons. Just the taste of straw and the pull of roots,
a blunt, bright proof that the year kept going.