The Apron

a poem

Gingham apron (photo courtesy of David Peterson)

Black and white squares, opaque to the light.
Sized small enough to not impose.

This is an everyday thing that few people bother with anymore.

They think they don’t need it.

I know better.

I’ve grabbed the corners with one hand, while I’ve placed beans, cherry tomatoes, or wild plums into its softness.

I’m experienced enough to know how to gather
the small harvest without crushing things.
And not to worry if plump juices pop.

I empty the contents into the colander with round holes and rinse.
Another every-day thing that filters the bounty from the chaff.

Little white stitches hold the cotton together.
They are too taut and can’t lay flat.

I feel sorry for those big snowflakes near the border.

I’d have to crush them down with steam heat from an iron.
And I don’t need to.

Once I tie the sash around my waist and get to work in the kitchen,
the wrinkles will smooth out from my body’s heat —
or the pat-down from my hands after I’ve washed them at the sink.