Sunday, April 04, 2010

Apron Strings

Cutting rhubarb in the rain,
the mottled leaves thick with mud
and slugs, I wonder if these plants,
robust now, will stand another
season in this shaded corner.

If not, next spring my husband
will surprise me bearing rhizomes,
and plant them so my garden
will be as my mother’s, and
her mother’s and, perhaps, all
our mothers’ before.

I’ll slice the stalks into chunks
for pie, mine has strawberries,
though she says berries ruins
the rhubarb; she makes sauce
and eats from the pot, still warm,
spoon clanking against the sides,
a smile trespassing her face.

Tendering these stalks, making the pie,
heralds me a holder of apron
strings, honoring our history
unmarked with words or trophies, and
thus, all the more important.

I wonder how my daughter
will grow her rhubarb.


Prompt: history

Peace, Linda


  1. I LOVE rhubarb, this piece reminds me of making sauce with my granny!

  2. Oh, I love this. It's so cosy and comforting, the passing on of a garden and pie tradition.

    In my opinion, strawberry rhubarb pie is the best.

  3. I'll be making pie in another 2-3 weeks -- yippee! And yes, I prefer strawberry-rhubarb -- with vanilla ice cream, of course! Peace, Linda

  4. This is my favourite poem of yours so far (mind you I'm only a few down the list).
    Such memories it invokes.
    And, yum, rhubarb.
    Mom putting some sugar in a cup, us in the garden, dipping the stalks in, all too-sweet and too-sour all at once.
    Happy pie-making.

  5. I read this the otherday. I love the way you write about your garden. It reflects your lovely soul.