Solitude by Kerry Hardie
It’s not January (obviously), but I can relate to being alone with a pumpkin. In fact, I’m baking bourbon pumpkin pecan bread right now.
Solitude
By Kerry Hardie
It was January,
I’d hardly seen anyone for days, you understand.
The sheep were all sitting separate and silent,
a hard wind was coming in over the hill,
a white moon floated.
I’d bought the pumpkin for soup.
My arms had dropped with the weight of it,
dropped and come back, like the bounce back up into air
after the deep of the river.
I’d hefted it in from the car,
set it down on the table.
It was smaller and fiercer and redder than I’d expected.
I was out on the hill for the sake of the moon
and the ash trees, raking the way with shadow.
Where the road ran high the fields slid into the valley.
Cloud covered the slopes of the mountains,
laying down snow.
I carried the color, red fire on the dark of the table,
the color would bear me through till his return.
When I got home the phone was ringing,
I had the key in the door but it wouldn’t turn.
I heard the phone cease in the empty house.
And the dogs milled about.
And the pumpkin stared out at the moon.
