American Pie

Sweet fruition twisting on a bent and laden branch Tart yet heavy wet with Summer rain Dry from working fields, entranced accents chatter mutter murmer almost heed. I stop to feel saliva wet the backside of my tongue And wish the fruit were ready as my need Alas, I pass,though I can taste The memory of last years fruit so grand; The tartness of the first still stops my hand. Across the back pasture the smell of pie Lifts the leaden weights from my dusty boots I feel her see the difference in my step Sharing joy I walk on air See her at the open door Tart yet heavy wet with Summer rain Ripe, so sweetly ripe,it pains This fruit as ready as my need And waiting