Grandma's Apron

I look at that old picture hanging stately on the wall Old Gray-haired Granny’s apon, the glue that stuck it all It’s faded, almost white, as the years battered the brown Days are few, indeed, when grandma’s apron wasn’t around I know that spot on her bosom, where I lay my little head That apron wiped away many a tear that stained every thread It did its duty as a blanket that kept little babies warm A pad, to hold a coffee pot at breakfast on an early morn A flag to scatter the chickens from the old weathered door Carried eggs to the kitchen, lifted tea pitchers, pots, pan galore It became a grip to open a jar, never seemed to strain Even doubled as an umbrella to keep off a summer rain Just an old apron, the fabric stained and rough It was the tool of all tools, in her world good enough