Pumpkin Pie

Padded footsteps on the stairs at dawn found you

long awake, barricaded behind an angry wall of work

Words were of no use - I turned to the cupboard

Flour dust, salt and leaven, the secret dash of ginger

then butter, cream, and the patient press of hands

To shape

and smooth

and wait

Then: a ripe orange volunteer from our garden; the pumpkins

grow here unbidden - perhaps they know their part in our home?

Split open on the kitchen altar and sacrificed

With brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg

In a cauldron of autumn colors,

bubbling with sweet enticements

To soothe your bristling gaze

Finally: the incantation complete,

with nothing left but time

and the oven's warmth

I watch from the corner and wait

for a sign

There has been no room for words in these cold spaces

So I have spent the entire morning

saying "I love you."