I have Measured Out My Life in a Pumpkin Patch

The vines of life running past my still legs, Climbing them while I stand, Not daring to move as they weave twixt my fingers, For fear that if I do I may lose a vine.

As the verdant sinews criss~cross my chest, I see the tendrils that lead to the pumpkins of my past loves, twisted and wiry, as they lead to fruit that is half formed and green, yet rotting away.

The strongest vines lead off into the morning mist, Not telling of their destination or even hinting if they will bear fruit, as they forge through the dew covered grounds, passing a bed of roses where someone else is measuring their thorns of dismay and petals of joy.