A Closing Season

Pumpkins aren't grown in crops in the sub-tropics, so they're shipped in to stores and local farms for people to go pumpkin picking in the spirit of the season.  There were some stunners out at Ergle, let me tell you, and I had no help from Roan, so I chose the first one I touched.  This is not as random as it seems.  I'm drawn instinctively towards things that attract me--in Ireland, every time I enter a tourist shop, I'm a Christie-moth to a shamrock green-flame--my classmates and friends told me as much.  So when I touch/pick up something it is because it is asking to be considered.  It was a good choice, and sits carved here on the dresser as I type: tall, with a heavy bottom that rounds inward at the top and a long stem.  Still, it is not the same as a field of wild-orange pumpkins, which is something in feeling like a field full of daffodils, only the light's different--later and warmer, closing, as the season is a closing season, an ending, a wrapping up . . . which changes everything about it.