Notes &
Her fingers knead, working
the hard ball of dough into
something soft, something pliable.
She dusts the board with flour, then
the roller. Her hands are powdered
with white as she rolls the dough
center to edge, center to edge
out and out and out, forming
a flat, ragged circle. The circle is folded
and carefully formed into the pie pan.
She chops pecans into shattered chunks,
lines them into the bottom of the pie shell.
She beats eggs, brown sugar, melted butter,
salt, vanilla, molasses into a frothy syrup
and pours it over the nuts. From the bag,
she selects the prettiest, most perfectly shaped
nuts to form a heart at the center.
Glass pie pan slides onto the hot rack.
It’s waiting that’s the hardest —
the smell of sugar caramelizing,
filling the rooms with longing,
while her thoughts drift to her children,
already becoming
the people they choose to be,
and yet, still
young enough to delight
in coming home to fresh baked pie.
[Put a comment in my ask box, and I’ll write you a poem…]
