Getting There, Pulling Herself, Amazing

Maybe raked maybe 

picked by hand does it make

any difference after

each mostly clean 

berry's free enough of her

stem and stray green

knuckle and an odd

leaf maybe and say they all take

on sugar at their own

pace shrug it off 

entirely or soak it in like it was

the only ever lost thing

it truly hankered

for.  Come cold butter come then

some crushed, come under

the millstone milled flour 

and come some pinch of salt

and what all unmeasured

come just eyeballed

the toss of water.  And soon

pinned and rolled in

thin enough a crust.  And soon 

what's come: the filling of those rough

and casual and familial

(because doesn't it 

depend on the level of light

in the room in your mood

doesn't it depend on

what life and breath you've got in you

that morning or afternoon

stoking the stove too

and keeping it all 

hot enough and steady

while heating gold comes on

melting in pie crust stroked on canvas

under hands a brush

a flush of crushed red then

faded into the places taken

under aprons under stations

they make you

stay in assaying the stained

entrapped ulnar the knuckled

chuff across the floor 

the push still hot from the oven

piece of pie ahead

and to the bottom 

of the stairs calling "Andy,

here's your lunch."

*Title and quote  Andrew Wyeth: A Spoken Self-

                            Portrait

                            Richard Meryman