Another Slice of Pie

I got the message on the way
up the canyon, M and M had
left a piece of pie on my
front porch and I wouldn’t
be back until the next day.
I called S. to offer it, reluctantly,
but better than the squirrels
gorging themselves on the
pie, no doubt sitting on another beautiful
plate, like the one I still have
at my house from the last delivery.
Up the canyon, it snowed on me,
it rained, my black and white
umbrella shielded my face and arms,
but my boots and pant legs
were drenched and heavy,
my small tent looked
barren and cold.
The pie called to me,
no doubt sweet, the butter
woven softly into the pastry.
I left the rain and the snow,
the yellow aspen leaves
strewn across the forest floor
and headed home for my
slice of pie.