When we threw the pumpkins out,
old rotting
     mold gourds
we let them sink into the ground.
We forgot.

The next year, vines shot out
pumpkins shouted out
and we could never forget again.

They come every year,
along with the burning of leaves
and the blindness of a dog
who sees less
and less.

I wonder about forgetting.
I worry about forgetting.
My memory is being tossed like
seeds to the wind,
I'm hoping the planting and the sowing will birth
what I have forgotten.
The intention was invisible,
the darkness was audible.

I'm sorry to myself.
I've forgotten everything else.