Apples and Cinnamon
~
Flour on her hands, and centuries on her elbow
Fingers balance a 'hand-me-down' dish,
Roosting deftly on finger-tips, high in mid-air
Lovingly she spins it, magician's hands twirling
Trimming the edges with flourish and flair
A bit like Da Vinci' ,…a small tool in hand
Skillfully carving, as a blade skims the rim
Pieces of pie dough, will soon drop away
She is shearing the excess, and trimming the dough
That turn into ribbons…wouldn't you know?
You must use every scrap,…meaning just that!..
Waste not, want not…each morsel a prize
Rolling them flat to large walnut size
~
Spread thick the butter…nothing is better
A sprinkle goes here, a sprinkle goes there
Cinnamon sugar, please don’t be spare
Baking till golden, toasting next to the pie
A preview of magic, a taste of delight
How does she know it, ... this magic voodoo?
Lessons in chemistry, from so long ago
She had watched this drama unfold in her dreams
Unfolding and playing on her memory's screen
This silent black magic, will play once again
Although the old soundtrack, worn of it's skill
The warmth of old memories, will never be stilled…
Don't bother to ask, for recipe pages
It is magic at best....., so priceless the task
So sprinkled with love, and has passed through the ages
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