An Instant Of Pie Poem by michael pacholski

I once made an apple pie from scratch
I browned the crust
added just a pinch of cinnamon
I even plucked the apples and sliced them
they were the perfect Washingtons
green and with just a hint of tartness.
Outside as I ate in late and breezy September
where the rain did not foresake the root
and I thought of the seeds of earlier apples
in my orchard
in my yard
and while indeed I did bake and make
a simple pie with simple flaky crust
I did not make the seed
nor the juice
I did not blow the wind that moved the seed
into my garden nor create
the shifts that moved the soil a million frozen years ago

Instead, many years ago before this moment
I simply planted the seeds
and those I bought from a store
bought in a store I did not build from scratch
to house these seeds I did not make
from trees I never saw nor lived with
planted in a soil I did not bring to the land
the store where the clerk always seemed a little sad
and the driver of the truck
her husband
said something to me
about wind and weather and tide and wave
it all passed me by in an instant of pie
his hand slipped from mine and the girl
was smiling already at the next customer

This is not what I know but simply imagine
we eat and smile together at this table for a time
but I walk on and the rest walk away
and upon this moment of this taste
this moment of baked-in-goodness taste
should be engraved the words
'I do not remember anything'