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FireFlys and Lamplight Poetry

Sumpin' For The Preacher
by The Faerie Keeper (Denny Lancaster)
210614

Slender, gnarled fingers cored and pared,
slices so delicate and neatly laid,
into the oven for sweet juice to be made.

Now for the crust, from cold water a pour,
thrice ground flour from work and a tear,
pity-pat on the heart oak counter we hear.

Four times a flat paste spread by hand,
flattened from a ball, so round and grand,
gently pinched and pressed into a pan.

The smoke from the oak rose in a tail,
from the cast iron stove now ready to cook,
while from all corners grandchildren look.

The apples, sweet and sour for succulent taste,
piled into the crust, layer by layer with butter ,
remembering the order, no room for haste.

Onto a paddle grandmas' pie did elegantly sit,
through the cast iron oven door, it barely fit,
and there she sat, holding it level, so sag.

Grandpa's eyes lit from the garden far away,
an apple pie was cookin', no one had to say,
and at heaven's table, we all ate that day.

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