THE FESTIVAL OF HARVESTS
Grandpa Watkins woke at four in the morn.
Overalls on the pockets were torn.
Two cups of coffee filled to the top.
Outside the truck backfired a bang and a pop!
With cream and a razor and a very quick shave.
Then grandpa opened the squeaky screen door to meet dear Uncle Dave.
The Festival of Harvests to begin at noon.
Dave and Pa loaded the truck by the light of the moon.
Not a grasshopper chirped. Not a cricket did croak.
But off in the distance was the cry of one billy goat.
The Festival of Harvests, the mazes and hay rides.
The cow paddy pie throws and anything fried.
And pumpkins for fun and to eat.
Orange and white pumpkins oh what a treat!
From seeds in the ground to shapes short and tall.
The Festival of Harvests comes once every fall.
In Dave’s pick up truck they hoisted in side.
Grandpa smiled as he thought of his pumpkins with pride.
Then Dave asked “Did you fasten the latch?”
Grandpa exclaimed don’t be absurd. Now off to town with the best pumpkin patch.
Fortunately, neighbor farmer Fry sees, hears and grins.
His patch full. Another Festival of Harvests, a gathering of friends.
Melissa Kathleen Peterson