Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Ma Ledford always wore an apron.
She churned butter, gathered apples
and baked bread wearing
her white starched apron.
Ma hoed her garden
in her one-pieced apron
and used it as a basket
to carry okra, corn, and tomatoes
into the kitchen.
She built fires in the woodstove
smearing soot on the White Lily apron.
When Granddaddy Bob went to market,
she changed into a fresh
lye-washed apron. She felt
undressed without it.
She used her apron as a fan
to chase flies away from
the dining room table.
I can still see Ma,
plain and practical
wearing her flour sack apron.
--Brenda Kay Ledford
This poem appeared in Farming Magazine, Winter 2015
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