SEMINOLE PUMPKIN

Gardening twenty years, I’ve
given up planting squash — all hope
exhaled from years of deflated
stems. Vine borers — like so much
Old South — veneer of oaken
courtesy — over a hollow, angry, core.

Then a friend said “Seminole
Pumpkins” — historic gift of Calusa,
Seminole, and Creek — seeds planted
at the bases of pines and oaks — they
watched vines snake-up twenty plus
feet — pumpkins dangling like party
lights on a humid August night.

Toes bathed in dew — I walk to
the garden, to find foot-wide leaves
the color of fast chlorophyll,
guarding seven ripening
green-streaked pumpkins

“Chassahowitzka” the Seminoles
said — “hanging pumpkin”, now
also river, and region.

Like many gifts, this is
undeserved, but given anyway.

Gary D. Grossman
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10–18–23