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Poem

The sparkling goodness imprisons an autumn sun
And takes me back to the tender days when I was very young
When I'd help my Mama pluck them off the ground
Tart fallen pippin apples which the warm brisk winds had found
We'd stack them in her apron hammock bed
And when we'd gathered enough, into the house we'd head
Right to the kitchen sink to sort, and wash
And I would stand upon a chair to watch
Then gently laid on a towel, they'd shine till they were gleaming
We'd sit, and chat,  she'd peel and we'd talk about every little thing
She would open the Crisco can, and the flour canister
And soon, before my very eyes, the pie dough would appear
She would roll the dough, and let me have a try
She would break off a piece for my miniature pie...
Side by side, she would show me how
Her patience was amazing....as I struggled to follow
The petals of peeled slices, layered out into rows
Sprinkled with her spices, added sugar and butter bows
Popped carefully into a piping oven, not quite an hour or so...
We'd watch them turn a golden brown...filling up my nose
With a cinnamon sweet fragrance, that would make my child's mouth drool
She would finally remove them, hot and gold,  slightly letting them cool
Would top their goodness with heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream too!
Ahhh....sweet are the memories of those awesome pie ala modes...
Are you watching me Mom?...on those autumn days when I have shown
My grandchild how to peel, and slice, and roll, and bake her own??....

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