Punkin

spring,
and you
plant your seed.
Rains taper, and
you watch carefully
during those first eight weeks.
As my flower blossomed, your
seed nurtured in my fertile womb,
you fled.  Ran through the thick iron gates
that protected my garden, left them ajar

and
summer
nudged its way
in, left me parched
and exposed in its
unforgiving light.  Though
by August the days became
cooler, and left me exhausted.
Just a skeletal frame now; bearing
boldly the fruit of your plunder, my soul.

Come
autumn
you became
fully ripened
and ready for birth.
When you were cut from
the vine which had joined us
I no longer had reason
to live.  I, a barren shell of
what once gave you life.  You exploited
proudly, a paragon of the season.

By
winter
you were dead.
You had shriveled
into a shell.  They
boxed up the memories
and took you outside to rot
tossed carelessly upon a pile,
the last remains of mother and child
disintegrate together.  Awaiting