My Offering

When the sands of time run out for me
And it's my turn to die
Would St. Peter say, "Come in, Ma'am",
If I bring a fresh baked pie?

I cannot write a winning poem
No matter how I try;
But there's no one who can say they bake
A better pie, than I.

I learned the process from my mom
And she learned it from her ma
Who honed her skills a lifetime
Making pies for my grandpa

Who was a connoisseur of pie
And ate it every day;
Wanting fresh pie for his breakfast
Not stale slice from yesterday.

Grandpa's hankering for pie, perhaps
Brought him to early grave.
Dad said if pie should bring him harm
He'd just try to be brave.

My apple tree is bearing
An unusually big crop
And my family is clamoring
For apple pie, non-stop.

Last week I had no money
As the tithing plate passed by.
I hoped no one was looking as
I left a fresh baked pie.

This week a plumper minister
Could not quite meet my eye,
But when my money hit the plate
I'm sure I saw him cry.

If you think I am just bragging
About my luscious pie,
I'm taking one from oven now.
You're welcome to stop by.

By: Joyce 8/31/06