Loose Leaf Notes

I feel naked with a week's worth of posts up and no poetry on the front page. Going into my 3rd week of my Massachusetts sabbatical, thinking about my loved ones back home in Virginia, while munching on blueberries, I remembered this poem. It was written in July 2003 for my eldest son's 24th birthday.

A Blueberry Pie for Joshua

Rolling out pie dough
into continent shapes
first Asia, then Africa

I feel my grandmother's wildness in me
navigating rough edges of coastline
as I steer the rolling pin like an oar
like an antique relic from her "roaring 20s"
it rocks back and forth

I relive my mother's frustration
while patching the dough where it's spotty or torn
trying to stretch what isn't enough
nine kids, two hands, and a sticky mix
that clings to wax paper

As I search the bowl of blueberries
for the bluest black ones
I remember "4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie"
"Hush little baby don't you cry"
and my son arranging battles
between blueberries and grapes
The blueberries always lost because he ate them

Soon he will come to collect
a last sweet taste of his childhood
He doesn't care that the pie center has sunk
that the blueberries aren't wild from Cape Cod
He doesn't remember when women wore aprons
and mothers taught daughters how to bake

With two potholders I carry the pie
set it on the table to cool
something in-between
wild and tame, sweet and sour
something in-between
"Three little kittens that lost their mittens"
and Eve's holy offering of fruit
all exist together in an archetypal pie

Raised by her German carpenter father
my mother never taught me how to bake a pie
but I saw her do it and learned by osmosis
and with the help of my friend Jayn's recipe

It doesn't matter that my mother didn't teach me
because Jayn's mother taught her
and now my pie sits on the table
like an icon at an altar
an enduring reminder
of every mother's love

Post to Note: The library is a 3 mile bike ride from my camp site, but their computers have no useable USB port and they can't read CDs. I had to type this on the spot with my hands slightly shaking and with no ablility to save as I went along or to check my spelling, like tightrope walking without a net.