Pumpkins on porches devoid of the scorches awaiting their annual plight.
Soon knife will descend for a gut wrenching end but reborn with flame burning bright
Orbs patiently wait this glorified fate as sentries of Falls candy rite.
The obvious choice, gives the Eve a mute voice calling out “stop here for a bite!”
Flashing their glances whilst youngsters take chances braving their mischievous sight.
In groups or by one, they’ll come and they’ll come, to challenge this well-meaning fright.
As porches grow dark they remain the last spark, a reminder of mischiefs big night.
Soon burned flesh will rot and all’ll be forgot diminished by Novembers’ light.
–AE, October 2016