Mom's Apple Pie

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??....