American Pie
Sweet fruition twisting on a bent and laden branch
Tart yet heavy wet with Summer rain
Dry from working fields, entranced
accents chatter mutter murmer almost heed.
I stop to feel saliva wet the backside of my tongue
And wish the fruit were ready as my need
Alas, I pass,though I can taste
The memory of last years fruit so grand;
The tartness of the first still stops my hand.
Across the back pasture the smell of pie
Lifts the leaden weights from my dusty boots
I feel her see the difference in my step
Sharing joy I walk on air
See her at the open door
Tart yet heavy wet with Summer rain
Ripe, so sweetly ripe,it pains
This fruit as ready as my need
And waiting
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