13 of 13

by Betty Rodman

Pumpkins sleeping in the field dreaming of becoming pie
Or perhaps the ability to wink a Jack-o-Lantern eye
Bathing in the autumn rain, sleeping through the night.
Morning come, daybreak; early morning light.
Pick me! Pick me! The voices of the pumpkins shout.
It is harvest time and all the children have come out.
Some pumpkins are mighty and vying for the Guinness Book.
Some are just real little and too cute to cook,
Determined to be taken home to sit on a windowsill.
Only to become a little mushy, rotten pumpkin ill;
Relegated to the backyard, lonely compost heap.
But take heart little pumpkin; it's just another kind of sleep.

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Poetry: Poems about death for children

by Betty Rodman

Poetry: Poems about death for children

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