setting puckered-apple witches out,
stiff gauze ghost and felt pumpkins,
I honor work of little hands now grown.
Spiders in black satin: I remember little girls.
I paint pumpkins on the porch,
streaking colors with wet fingers,
laughing like a skeleton,
just the orange wind and me.
and I know this:
the world still turns to fall,
to smoky gold long-shadowed dusk
and then to stars and dark
and all around, the Mystery.