I still expect my
Genius to be discovered.
Until then, I’m baking pies
And scribbling cook’s notes.
If these scan sometimes,
I can’t speak to that.
There’s the time my pumpkin pie,
Crowning glory of
Thanksgiving Day’s feast,
Whispered as we ate:
“No famine, not today,
No famine, not today.”
Or when my last lemon pie
Said, “You there, Cook, don’t
Stint on the meringue.”
Pie, it pointed out,
Once and future, everywhere,
Needs its curlicues.
I’d say more of what I hear –
The garden’s revelation,
The chickens’ filthy gossip,
But poems are best kept short,
If by imitation we
Are to honor life.
About the Creator
Rose Kleidon
University professor emerita (English). Member, the Historical Novel Society and Historical Writers of America. Presenter at conferences for writers and historians. Co-owner and co-founder of Kleidon and Associates. Novelist.
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