The Pumpkin Lantern

The Pumpkin Lantern

The air is sharp with autumn’s breath.

Leaves rustle like restless bones,

drifting across the quiet road.

Somewhere a gate creaks open,

then shuts itself again.

I see the glow ahead, low and waiting.

A pumpkin lantern, carved and cruel.

Its eyes are deep with fire and mischief,

its grin wide enough for secrets,

that no one living should know.

I walk toward it through the mist.

The night smells of cider and smoke,

of soil turned cold beneath the stars.

Owls call from the hedges, slow and distant,

and the world holds its breath to listen.

The flame flickers, bright and wild.

It hums as though it remembers,

old laughter, old cries, old songs.

I think of the ones who came before,

their masks, their whispers, their shadows.

When I reach it, the light leans out.

It touches my face like a knowing hand.

Inside, the candle twists and sighs,

and the grin deepens, almost alive,

almost glad to see me.

The wind stirs. The fields turn black.

I hear steps that are not my own.

The lantern flares, a sudden blaze,

and for a heartbeat, I see faces in the smoke,

smiling back from another time.

The fire sinks low, soft and slow.

The pumpkin breathes, still watching.

I turn away, but its glow remains,

marking the edge where autumn leans,

into the dark of Halloween.