by Nathan Breck

Created on: August 15, 2009   Last Updated: August 16, 2009

Over a little hill, through a gulchy creek
That only flows now, right after the rain,
Some gourds have taken over the slope.
In the morning orange faces smile back
At the high-sky glows from the eastern rising:
They expand as little suns repeated through
The force of growing vines, the acceptance
Of sunlight making little suns anew.

Earlier, they were seeds: dry, ugly little
Things, tiny husks. They sprouted into leaves,
Which hugened overnight, it seemed,
Forming canopies that drowned the weeds.
Then vines began to roll and run
All down the hill, sugar-plant highways
Tumbling in leafy terraces lower.

This season thus far, they bloom,
But no baby gourds are growing.
Maybe in the autumn, when leaves
Are falling, the gourds will rise:
Grow in opposition, grow against,
Great knobby colors expanding
While the world goes yellow, the leaves
Run away from the too-blue sky,
And only the gourd, or the winter squash,
Kicks back against the sky,
And grows into that cooler season.

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