Apple Pie, Late Harvest

She jumbled a measure of
Flour, a measure of
Water, a measure of
Salt, cutting
Lard into the mix;
Patiently pushing, fighting
Stickiness to create the
Base, the start.
Apples, cooked and sitting
Warm in brown sugar and
Cinnamon and spices,
Waited to the side.

Holding the bowl-shaped
Ceramic, only lightly
Pressing and
Pushing now,
She walked to the yard,
Ending where the
Fields began,
The fields of tall, brown now,
Scratchy noises in the wind,
The fields waiting patiently for
The combine to exhale
And move on.

Massaging the dough with
Her fingers,
She watched
Red-bronzed farmer
Move patiently
Through the fields, as
Patiently as the
Fields themselves waited,
Patiently despite the
Coming rain, which
Might snow make
Yet today.

She knew his mind, as
She shaped the floury mix.
She knew his calloused hands,
Young hands already
Farm-roughened,
Hands that had touched
Her skin like
Fire and rain.
She knew his unshaven face,
His sweat-smell,
His worry-smell to
Get the harvest home.

She knew his heart, the heart
That beat next to hers.
She knew the life, the life
Within,
The life moving near
Their hearts at night
And hers at day,
Its own heart, born of their oneness,
Waiting for its time, its time to push
And press and fight for life,
For its place, too,
In the fields.

She felt the silky
Smoothness of
The worked dough,
Now ready for apples and
Brown sugar and
Cinnamon spices.