Flat in the mud of last years garden. Pumpkins and squash I neglected are rotting. Broken faces, split through, collapsed, snowed on and frozen. A crime scene, a bog body, a war crime, a civilization buried by time. When I was sick of squash and pumpkin. When I couldn't eat another bite. When I abandoned them to winter. I took my selfish shadow inside. I should have froze there. I should have rotted. I should be blackened and mushy, face down and plowed under, composted, concealed. If I fall in the garden, clutching my chest, and I stay there all season because no one calls. The pumpkins and squash will be right to grow over me. Hide me until next year, my broken face in the mud.