Even with the garage door closed,
The autumn cold condenses my breath,
Making a momentary, warm, wisp of cloud
That quickly succumbs to the frigid air.
The fly-like buzzing, low pitch humming,
And finicky flickering of florescent lamps
Provides an epilepsy inducing light show,
and plays a monotone accompaniment,
Supporting the eerie, melodic whistling
Of my father’s seasonal solo.
The numb throbbing of my frozen fingers
Pleads to cease the tedious task
Of separating seeds from orange guts,
But one glance at my old man watching me
With a loving smile behind greying whiskers,
And I realize this is much more than pumpkin carving.
Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to like and leave a comment!!
Written for Three Line Tales – Week 39.
Photo by Shaun Holloway – click here for the bigger picture