BLACKBERRY JELLY

                                            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