Autumn Pie

Apple pie, fresh from the oven cools on a rack, whiffs of cinnamon-nutmeg aroma rise through the pastry vent then drifts out through the kitchen window opened an inch or so mingling with a hint of moulder on the breeze. The apple peelings still lay on newspapers on the counter, deep crimsons mottled with yellow, green mirror fall leaves of brilliant hues. Is this a coincidence? Perhaps - but perhaps not - possibly nature intends apples such colours as a reminder autumn is close at hand. The pastry, free-formed into an irregular shape, rustic, like nature. Trees, some now partially stripped of leaves, expose gnarled limbs twisting and turning madly off in all directions. Showing its imperfections yet is beautiful in its own way silhouetted against an October deep azure sky. Reminiscences of baking apple pie snapshots in an album in the mind's eye retrieving them, recollecting that day will sustain when December's snowflakes flutter about, when January's winds wail and when February's blizzards drift high against the doors