After W.S. Merwin

At times now from some margin of the day
I can smell apples cooking in a pan,
for a moment cinnamon or maybe only
the memory of cinnamon until all of it
blows away and I am left remembering
not apples but what apples help me
remember – my grandmother at the stove,
her apron tied behind her into a bow,
the bow like a swallowtail, and I'm afraid
if I move I'll spook the butterfly,
but I move anyway – there is no way to make
anything last – and then I'm outside
another house with another open window
where the scent of apples has floated
and settled in a pot of bubbling oatmeal,
and my mind, which like a child
had stayed behind to remember
the calico print of the cotton apron,
clambers up behind me, tugs
my jacket sleeve, and wonders if
we should walk home to the garden
and wait by the zinnias.