I wonder does the grieving wife who set
the pumpkin here to decorate the grave
of her lost husband through October's wet
and early dusk dislike the crows that crave
the inner pulp and seeds of her orange charm
and so remove in ragged pecks its crown.
When she revisits will she feel alarm
to see her gaudy mums now soured to brown
and fear the vacant wind that plants debris
in random heaps upon the pitted earth
where formerly she strove so anxiously
to craft a picturesque eternal berth?
Persistent rot defeats the pleading need
for comfort permanently guaranteed.