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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=564393" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mothers Poetry: Mom's Apron</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">While thumbing through the old photo album, <br>A particular one my eyes fixed upon: <br>It was of Mom in her blue Sunday dress<br>And wearing a soiled yellow apron.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I smiled as in my mind I returned, <br>It seemed just like it was yesterday; <br>For I had left my small hand prints on it<br>From playing in the Carolina red clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mom had called us into dinner; <br>I could smell Sunday chicken fried.<br>So I ran in and threw my arms around her, <br>As on my hands the clay she spied.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mom pinched my cheeks as she laughed out loud, <br>Told me to wash up and quickly sit down; <br>Then sister Mary Ruth took Mom’s picture.<br>We kids snickered, not Dad, he just made a frown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mom would always wear an apron; <br>Yellow was her favorite color.<br>I loved to sneak and untie it, <br>Hear her shout, “Scat, you little stinker! ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, the apron was Mom’s preference<br>Of all the clothing that she wore; <br>She donned it like a badge of honor, <br>Displayed it like some fancy decor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She would wear it into the hen house, <br>Then shape it in a rounded fold; <br>There, softly place fresh eggs gathered, <br>Or shield baby chicks from the cold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I’ve seen her use it for a basket<br>For garden tomatoes or fresh corn; <br>I even recall when it cradled<br>A dozen kittens newly born.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She’d reach down, pull it at the bottom, <br>Her dishpan hands to gently dry; <br>She would fan herself in hot weather, <br>Or wave it like a flag to say goodbye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why, Mom’s apron could hide a shy child, <br>Or wipe dirt from a little boy’s ear; <br>And she would keep a hankie in its pocket, <br>That’s one memory I still hold dear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have seen her pat a sweaty brow, <br>After cooking over an old wood stove; <br>Or use it for a potholder, as cornbread<br>From the oven she would remove.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She’d use it to carry ripe apples<br>That had just fallen to the ground; <br>Maybe collect crumbs from the table, <br>Toss them to the birds waitin’ ’round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, Mom’s apron had many uses, <br>From a tote bag to shooing flies; <br>But I’ve also seen her use it tenderly, <br>When she would wipe teary eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, I suppose the apron was invented<br>To protect a mom’s pretty clothes; <br>But they must have had my Mom in mind, <br>How she loved it... heaven only knows.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I don’t reckon that too many ladies<br>Would care a whit for it these days; <br>But my mom proved its great value, <br>As she used it in so many ways.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  *****</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, when I look through my family photos, <br>There’s one I still gaze upon; <br>It’s of Mom in her blue Sunday dress, <br>Wearing a soiled yellow apron.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Loyd+C.+Taylor">Loyd C. Taylor</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=564393" data-title="Mothers Poetry: Mom's Apron de Loyd C. Taylor" data-description="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..."></div>
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