I love you like pumpkins.

I love you like sun.

I love you like winter,

or a new born bun.

I love you like happiness, like sadness, and fear.

I love you like the seasons, ever changing.

I love you like feelings, ever ranging.

I love you like the pumpkins I sow every year.

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I love how you water them when I am not there.

I love you like moonlight, like madness, like beer.

I love you like wine, and like gin, or a sober night in.

I love you like sandpaper, bubblegum, stones,

like chalk on my nose, or a new pumpkin growth.

I love you like mystery, or history, or bag of loaded dice,

a lone sock, a one-armed clock, like sugar and spice.

I love you like kittens, cookies, zebras, xylophones,

a silent breeze, or the wind in my hair,

and how when I tell you that my pumpkins have grown

you always come and stare.

I love you like everything, like nothing at all.

But most of all, I love you like pumpkins.

Now isn’t that something?