I was going to write a poem
but I made a pie instead.
It was much easier,
and so much more appreciated.
I mean, you can eat a pie,
you can’t eat a metaphor,
and I was hungry
and words were getting
all tangled up
in their intangibility.
Still I have this crazy need
to use them,
like a painter might use his palette
to show how amazing the light is
or how sweet the pie
still fresh from the oven
year after year
the apples hot and juicy
the pie crust golden brown
smelling of home and love.
I could even add ice cream
and it would not melt.
It would be there for the children
even when they are no longer children
for at what age does one not want
homemade pie?
About the Author
Dorothy Riehm lives in Northampton in a cohousing community. A retired social worker, she has been writing poetry on and off for many years, and now in her 80’s has been sending her work out for publication. Her poetry has appeared in Friends Journal, Passagers, and will be in the forthcoming issues of Silkworm and Linea.
