Grace Tastes Like Pie

Grace tastes like pie.
Made by real hands,
Butter squished between fingers
Flour under nails and puffed into the air.
Just a little salty
Like tears on a precious cheek
Kissed away.
Crust rolled out flat
On a table filled with homework and bills
And arguments and sighs
Celebrations and sandwiches.
Laid in the tin, gingerly,
Like a sleeping baby.
Smooth out all the wrinkles.
Good night sweet dreams say your prayers.
It will all look different in the morning.
Berries smashed and pouring
Out their offering of dark red juiciness
Staining an apron and counter top
Like blood but sweet
And tart like wine.
Pour into the crust bed
Hope and memory and disappointment
Sweetened with vanilla and honey
Baked in the red hot oven of tenderness
Whose waves like summer wind blast
Full in the face when the door is open.
Little timekeeper shaped like a ladybug, smiling.
Don’t panic, she says.
All will be well and all will be well
And all manner of pies will be well.
To everything there is a season and time
For every pastry under heaven.
Steaming and calling through the house.
Simmering liquid love of sugar and blackberries
Salt and butter burns the tongue,
Melts the ice cream.
Then cooled and refrigerated.
Its best surprise is unexpected joy
In the middle of a long night
Satisfying the broken heart
The wounded spirit, the tired soul.
Grace tastes just exactly like pie.

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