By Steven Wade Veatch
The black porcelain pie bird
postures, fades, and then evokes
my great-grandmother Daisy.
She taps on the door
of my memory.
Adrift in thought and time,
I let her in. I hear her voice. I listen
with my eyes closed as she meanders
through my thoughts and fills my heart.
I remember: She wore a print farm dress
and baked pies for my dad.
He liked two kinds: hot or cold.
I forget: What it was like when she held
me in her arms.
Our time together escaped,
like steam venting through
the pie bird’s yellow beak.
Those hours are gone,
moments overlooked,
time lost.
These days cannot compare
to her time of promises
and delights.
I smile.
No amount of poetry
can bring us back together again—
but the pie bird did.
 |
| Pie bird at the Benzie Area Historical Society Museum in Benzonia. |
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