I love eating apples. They taste good and they're good for me. It struck me again this morning how often I am on the lookout for hidden seeds everywhere.

They appear to me in people's actions, in the moments that I have learned to not let slip away from me, in the faces passing by me at the gas station, at church, and in my local Wal-Mart crowd.

These seeds become my poems and stories, as in this one:

POSTLUDE

Scatter my ashes in the garden of my church
so I can hear the music of the choir. . .
sing a few of my favorite hymns
say a few honest words
join voices and hands in a circle of love;
laugh as you tell some stories of silly stumbling me.
I love when you laugh. Laughter is music to my ears.

When I’ve settled down in time and brown gives way to green
remember I love blossoms. As seasons pass
think of my persistent passion for food and wine
and when you visit the church garden
on a breezy autumn afternoon
bring along some full, ripe grapes. Bite into them and
let their wetness dribble off your chin and let the seeds
cling to your cheeks. When I’m dead
I want folks to smile and say, "That Patty. She was one juicy gal!"