Every Columbus Day
the locals bring their chairs
and watch a trebuchet
launch pumpkins past a fort
of tin, as engineers
at play attempt to crush
the record for the sport
It must have been a shock
when such a monster threw
silent rounds of rock
into the market square
hundreds of years ago.
But the Big Moons they hurl
today could only scare
the unsuspecting squirrel.
These fruits are much too soft
to crack a citadel.
Some prove, while still aloft,
unequal to the stress
of flight and send a hail
that’s tragically organic.
They spread a pureed mess
but hardly cause much panic.
In spite of all the gore,
there’s an unexpected grace
in how the pumpkins soar
over treetops and descend
like basketballs from space.
And though all living things
must meet a sticky end,
at least they’ve had their flings.
Stephen Scaer is a poet in Nashua, New Hampshire.
