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Poem

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

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