in memory of my brother, Richard

We piled into your burgundy ’48 Chrysler
each October, our fall pilgrimage
to the Finger Lakes for grape pies. Oh,
the Concord smell—the crust still warm.

Near dusk, we’d head home
as streaks of orchid purpled the sky.
Lilacs waited for us in front yards.

No one brought flowers to your funeral.
Picnic baskets lined the altar, the wild
aroma of grape pies rising.