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Loyd C. Taylor

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.

[...] Read more

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