Pumpkin Pie

Padded footsteps on the stairs at dawn found you
  long awake, barricaded behind an angry wall of work

Words were of no use – I turned to the cupboard

Flour dust, salt and leaven, the secret dash of ginger
  then butter, cream, and the patient press of hands
To shape
  and smooth
    and wait

Then: a ripe orange volunteer from our garden; the pumpkins
  grow here unbidden – perhaps they know their part in our home?
Split open on the kitchen altar and sacrificed
With brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg
In a cauldron of autumn colors,
  bubbling with sweet enticements
To soothe your bristling gaze

Finally: the incantation complete,
  with nothing left but time
    and the oven’s warmth
I watch from the corner and wait
  for a sign

There has been no room for words in these cold spaces
So I have spent the entire morning
  saying “I love you.”

[10 Oct 2010 – it’s always a good day to make pumpkin pie. Even if nobody’s in a bad mood]

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