It’s October again
And I wonder,
With all the craze,
Why don’t we
Pickle pumpkins?

Who decided,
Some time,
At the turn of
Whatever century,

It was a good idea
To pickle anything?

“We played a dirge for you
But you didn’t weep.
We played a song for you
But you didn’t dance.”

“We gave you a pickle,
But you made a sour face.”

Some kids just don’t LIKE pickles.
And some just do.

But for most of us
It grows on us
Over time.

Octobers were like that
For me.

After years of monotony,
I grew to love
The sudden change.

After experiences
Of change and hardship,
The melancholy
And beauty
Of a colorful dying.

To answer the prophet,
The dirge eventually
DOES make us weep:

Because we all lose
The golden key
At some point.

And though some of us
Can’t dance,

Given time,
We all envy
Or understand
The necessity,

The preservation
Of THAT type of joy.