Someone carved a face in that pumpkin,
and now it's perched on a stoop, grinning
with the same sinister grin the carver must have had
when he carved it.

And everything I recognize as expressive
(the triangular eyes, that big toothy smile)
is marked by a lack of pumpkin.
A red face of dead space.

And now I'm seeing just the opposite.
I see two spots where the eyes should be,
an open wound where the mouth once sat,
and a fire within, baking the insides.

A child's laugh is heard
Early one morning in May;
Along with the chains of a bike;
Ringing their song,
Harmonizing with rubber tires,
Humming against the street.


Alert as a bird,
The child rides away;
In a day so dreamlike,
And sings along,
With voice like the wildfires;
Seeking a friend to meet.  


The sun reflects on golden hair,
Fingers run though the chopped cut.
A youthful smile glows,
Complementing the sun, so bright.
Interrupted by the squealing of breaks.  


The child stops right there;
Not so childish now, but
The now faded smile shows
That the child is alright;
Although the child aches.


The child has fallen into  
The same May, accept a different year.
The bike's coated with memories and dust.
The tire's out of breath and flat,  
And no song is sung.


Saddened eyes of blue
Accepts nothing but fear.
The laugh turned to rust;
And just to think that
This change has just begun.