Me, Myself, and Pie


To introduce wood to dough,
dough to rolling pin,
and rolling pin to grip,
is to make a home where wanderers wander,
stories soar, and love lands.

To pour dirtied sugar
onto apple’s tang
with a sway left
and flick right,
is to be a child lost in the tango of taste unfolding.

To lay the dough over,
blanketing the wondered,
is to feel your mother’s warmth suddenly rise in you.

To see the dough rise,
feel apple-laced elixir awaken your nostrils,
and taste golden harvest warmth,
is to welcome a dream.

To make an apple pie
is to bring myself home,
welcome youthful awe,
make my mother smile,
and dream this never ends

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