The scent sliced apple
brings me back to your kitchen
fresh rolled white dough
draped over your pie pans

your hands and paring knife
make quick work of things
peel after peel quickly unwind
as skillful as any artist

As we talk you continue
and soon the pans
seem overflowing
with your bare fruit

You smile and just as quickly
sprinkle a handful of sugar
like a granular snowfall
as if each grain were counted

You measure nothing each measure is exact
the cinnamon and the nutmeg
I'm fascinated as you apply the tops
and unfurl them with your rolling pin

dressed and punctured
with your fork
brushed with eggwhite
and popped in the oven

I thought you were making pies
but realize now
it was so much more
you showed me so much

I remember just like yesterday
but I was just a boy
the scent sliced apple
brings me back to your kitchen

©  James T. Adair