She made this pie.
She peeled apples, shelled walnuts, diced a pear,
placed them in a butter-flake shell
and sprinkled it all with sugar and cinnamon.
Her knife sits on a clean towel, juice dried on the blade.
Flour coats bowls, pans, measuring cups in the sink.
The counter’s slick with butter.
Woven lattice crust shows the refinement
of her craft, hides her ideas and frustrations.
Intention vanished with the thinker.
Around the living room, mourners fork
through the edge where she thumbed the dough
between two fingers held slightly apart.
under burden of snow
the city grows quiet
human beings at work
the only movement tonight
shovel scrape, crunch,
tires sing on slick pavement
breaths hang in streetlight
mumbles, moans, and sighs
snow ends the business
of salvagers and gleaners
they join their fellows, shuffling
citizens who have little to do
but sprinkle their labors with salt
and inhale the night
creation vs. evolution
great books in philosophy
health and well-being
a raindrop on humus
drips down through fossils
on a cave roof
it joins others in a river
that flows out of a rock seam,
pure, clear, cold
the twelve year old cups his hands
and drinks in the sweetest memory
he’ll ever taste
the old man sits in the porchswing
midday heat conjures miasmas
from the victim who smiles skyward,
rictus cocked, drooling on the yellow stripe,
empty eyes looking different directions,
in tire tread
there is being, demise, vivacity, mortality;
sons daughters mothers fathers
friends acquaintances self—
mounds of earth, urns, carved stones—
damnation, salvation, ruination, redemption
the rearview mirror frames a procession,
attendants in black strut over their treasures,
pick tufts of fur from pavement.