‘Pumpkin Spice’: A Poem by Michael Pendragon

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Pumpkin Spice

The scent of Autumn lingers in the air
With hints of ginger, cinnamon, and clove;
At 42nd Street and Herald Square,
On 8th Street, Bleecker, Christopher, and Grove—
Each crowded sidewalk, every crosswalk where
New Yorkers sip their pumpkin latte dreams.

The years run back to homemade pumpkin pie
That warms my spirit as the days grow cold;
And somewhere in some long-forgotten sky
I see your face in tones of burnished gold—
But men grow old, and memories fade and die
And life’s not half so wondrous as it seems

When love was young and knew no greater bliss
Than tasting pumpkin spices in your kiss.

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Michael Pendragon is a New York-based poet, writer, and independent filmmaker. His poetry and fiction have appeared in approximately 200 small press publications, and he has three poetry collections available at Amazon.com. From 1996 to 2005, he published a pair of literary journals: “Penny Dreadful” and “Songs of Innocence & Experience.” He currently publishes “A Year of Sundays,” featuring the poetry of the members of his Facebook Group, “The Official AAPC (alt.arts.poetry.comments) Poetry Group” at https://www.facebook.com/groups/184972343500393