The Old Pumpkin

Where am I? An open field.
With a cedar tree for a shield.
As dew leaps from my vines onto the ground,
The wind picks up its traveling sound.

Once again my vines cry.
My stem gets bored and lets out a sigh.
The orange stomach I've gained,
Lets me know the season has changed.

My neighbor, the tree, lets leaves dive
To the ground they hit, thumping a forlorn beehive.
The darkening lines on me show my age,
The vines on me turn a pale sage.