Mothers Poetry: Mom's Apron
While thumbing through the old photo album,
A particular one my eyes fixed upon:
It was of Mom in her blue Sunday dress
And wearing a soiled yellow apron.
I smiled as in my mind I returned,
It seemed just like it was yesterday;
For I had left my small hand prints on it
From playing in the Carolina red clay.
Mom had called us into dinner;
I could smell Sunday chicken fried.
So I ran in and threw my arms around her,
As on my hands the clay she spied.
Mom pinched my cheeks as she laughed out loud,
Told me to wash up and quickly sit down;
Then sister Mary Ruth took Mom’s picture.
We kids snickered, not Dad, he just made a frown.
Mom would always wear an apron;
Yellow was her favorite color.
I loved to sneak and untie it,
Hear her shout, “Scat, you little stinker! ”
Yes, the apron was Mom’s preference
Of all the clothing that she wore;
She donned it like a badge of honor,
Displayed it like some fancy decor.
She would wear it into the hen house,
Then shape it in a rounded fold;
There, softly place fresh eggs gathered,
Or shield baby chicks from the cold.
I’ve seen her use it for a basket
For garden tomatoes or fresh corn;
I even recall when it cradled
A dozen kittens newly born.
She’d reach down, pull it at the bottom,
Her dishpan hands to gently dry;
She would fan herself in hot weather,
Or wave it like a flag to say goodbye.
Why, Mom’s apron could hide a shy child,
Or wipe dirt from a little boy’s ear;
And she would keep a hankie in its pocket,
That’s one memory I still hold dear.
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poem by Loyd C. Taylor
Added by Poetry Lover
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