The Guardian's Crown

I ascended the cold stone steps of the porch, where a stout, freshly carved jack-o'-lantern held court in the morning light. Its jagged lid had slipped askew, tilting like a drunken crown. Propping my gnarled staff against its ridged flank, I extended my skeletal fingers to grip the dry, twisted green stem. With deliberate theatrical reverence, I lifted the lid, peered into the hollow cavern scented of raw pulp, and seated the notched crown squarely back into place. Its toothy grimace now faced the walkway with unyielding majesty. A low, thoroughly satisfied chuckle stirred beneath my cowl; the guardian of our threshold stands restored.