The Peach Pie Recipe

The Peach Pie Recipe

It was a peach pie.  With daisies inside.

No, not daisies, just the fruit was so ripe.

His hands were firm.  He used a knife 

With skill, with care.  It didn’t scare her at all.

He was quick with the flour.  He loved her already.  And he knew that as soon as…

Well, he didn’t.

But he loved her in the kitchen.

With a peach pie.

And when he moved to the living room. And they danced in the hall.

He loved her there too, apron and all.

And when they twirled into the bedroom and shut the door.

He told her stories before he spoke to her body.

And he loved her in bed with all that he could.

And when they woke up, they walked to the garden.

They picked up real daisies. And he loved her under the sunshine.

And he never knew he loved her, he just did.  

And with each move, each exit to a different room,

They were taking a risk.

There was a chance he wouldn’t love her anymore.

There was a chance of change through every door.

It was a peach pie.  And it had cooled.

They ate a slice.  One, then two.

If they wanted to dance, they would have to move.

They cared not of the danger of a different room.

They knew love is a motion. An emotional flume.

It grows cold with stillness.

It plays out of tune.

It was a peach pie.

Freshly baked and freshly eaten.

They cooked and they danced,

Through all four seasons.


It was a peach pie. 


Mother, May I?

Mother, May I?

How & Why?

How & Why?