My beautiful mother sitting on the front porch.
BLACKBERRY JELLY
I look in the mirror
and Mother is reflected in me.
I'm more like her every day.
Each morning she rose
as the rooster crowed
and the sun peeked over
Shewbird Mountain like a ruby.
Honeysuckle perfumed the pine grove
as she grabbed a bucket
and headed to the berry patch.
She stretched her body through briars
to pluck the plump fruit,
ran like a racehorse when
a black snake chased her home.
I watched Mother as she stood
over the woodstove making jelly,
sweat ran down her face.
I helped her wash the Ball jars
to preserve the flavors of our farm.
Although she's been gone
for three years from earth,
I feel close to her
as I flip through her recipes
that she wrote on napkins,
paper bags, and notebook paper.
I can hear her voice telling
me to Clean up the kitchen,
as I use the bowls and utensils,
Don't waste the ingredients,
money doesn't grow on trees.
I'm proud when I look
in the mirror and see
the spitting image of Mother.
--Brenda Kay Ledford
