Apple Pie

On Saturday night
Apples from the tree by the orchard gate,
Stripped of their green,
Sliced white into a crust, baked,
Till the house is scented with cinnamon
And sweet brown sugar
Take me back
To childhood and home, to
Autumn with red and orange leaves
Rustling in the wind;
Becoming more than food for stomach,
True food for the soul. 

Published by Elece

I am a photographer and a freelance writer. I write stories, poetry, gift books, and magazine articles––both print and online. Photographing children, places, and especially flowers is my hobby.

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