Finding Their Use
When I grabbed for the pot-holder,
To remove my ready dinner,
I remembered Mama's apron
And her pies, each one a winner.
I would wait with expectation
As she buried them with such care
In the folds of her big apron,
Knowing there was such treasure there.
I looked around for an apron
As the timer began to ring,
My Mama's gone, apron with her.
Pot-holders now are the only thing.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2020
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