Maggie's Apron

 

Old Apron

What made me think
of soft cotton print,
floral and faded,
flavored and floured
with sifted self-rising, sweet milk,
buttermilk, fried apple pies,
corn meal, sage, and the
stain of summer?

Why in the middle of winter
did I long for
prize hen hidings,
scattered snowball blossoms,
wood shed shavings,
coal piles, well water, creek water,
sweet beans, mosquito tins,
plastic pails with potatoes,
peanuts, peas, snap beans,
and paths with strawberries to pick?

When did I last
hold and enfold
blue field fabric and pockets,
with Horehounds and calico,
tissue, found pennies,
thimble, and thread,
safe treasures of grandmother's love?

Teresa A Price ©The Anuran, 1988

photo credit:  GNU Free Documentation License 1.2

({{Information |Description={{en|1=Picture of old woman in Normandy (France) by Nicolas Laurens}} {{fr|1=Portrait d'une vieille normande, par Nicolas Laurens}} |Source=own |Author=Nicolas Laurens |Date= |Permission= |other_versions= }} [[Category:Costumes) 

Redezvous © Teresa Price

We share a past

and a destiny

in what we know

and do not know

as we present ourselves

in thunder, 

in stability,

in charting,

in standing balanced,

far from the truth

far from the ships,

far from the stories somewhere in America

where your blood

ran gluttonous

and your wares drowned,

and decayed into the dirt

of early oceans before you. 

I want to look behind the photograph,

behind the scene,

behind the black and white,

to find who you are. 

And if I bleed,

and I do bleed,

what is your part in my life's desperate spill?

Surrounded by a contrast of 

thankfulness and moan,

aware of conflict 

and imploded streets, 

I seek, 

the breaking rain,

the breaking dawn,

the breaking fullness of  time.

Let nature torment

the lock in some musty stall,

where the embedded pages

stain forgotten 

amidst some rodent's run. 

Can what is found bring

some authority,

some answer,

some solace?

Surely there is purpose?

There must be stories. 

There must be

some broken spring,

some broken shackle,

some rusty tine, 

some hung key's release

of your history, your time. 

I am unsteady, 

all  intake, instrument,  and meter.

I tilt bombarded

on fallen knees. 

Driven and mired,

branded with flaw. 

Will you come to me,

with hope,

with revelation? 

My faith invites

your journey 

across some temporal, selfish sky, 

at open pace 

with shadow and light 

an illuminate

at beat, 

toward my

expectant and hurled heart.

Teresa Price ©2011