The PUMPKIN LETTER
I found the first pumpkin just as the last colors of evening were sinking into the garden.
It lay beneath the garden bench—a little orange globe small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
The remnant of its vine curled like a cat’s tail. When I picked it up, I noticed words carved into its skin. A poem, etched with a slender blade.
> Though the light is small,
> it can still show the way.
The carved letters were somewhat angular, but perfectly legible. The grooves were fresh, and when I ran a finger over them, I thought I could still feel the raw dampness of the pumpkin beneath its skin.