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.
