Seems like Granny Jenny lived in her kitchen.
Her faded bib apron seldom rested on a peg,
It’s deep pockets a cache for surprises, lemon drops
And silver whistles waiting to be found by small hands.
In one corner, her old green rocker that walked
As she rocked, starting out here and ending up there,
With me on her lap pulling pins from the braid that trailed
Down her back when the last one was out.
Her prized possession sat on the sunny south wall…
A Singer sewing machine powered by treadle;
The birthplace of all the clothes that we claimed.
She cut patterns from the newspaper, yet the fit
Her apron wore wildflowers that bloomed so profusely
There was barely room for their names. Those were the days
When flour and seed came in cloth sacks. Miller Jones
Kept a sharp eye for the best ones around.
My Granny pulled dreams out of those bags of ground wheat,
Dreams of pastries and cakes, and gowns fit for a queen.
first posted at The Peaceful Pub on 7/27/2011 9:26 P.M.