Take me back to cherry trees, to strawberry summers and
lemon meringue, to pecans and mince and
flavors of feasts, enfolded in circles of blessing and home,
to aroma sweet, in buttery crusts that shatter when
whispers of Aunt Etta's good forks touch at the points of
glistening wedges, and no crumb remains on
the Staffordshire plates when Grandpa discreetly exhales a sigh.
I sing the praise of American pie.
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