Thursday Morning (poem)

Thursday Morning

I called my mother
to see how many rugs
she’d shaken today.
When you’re in your eighties
shaking rugs is a real
None today, she said,
but she’d planted nine rows of garden
and mowed the barnyard,
all before nine o’clock
that morning.
And she was preparing
to clean up and iron a little
before raising the dust
with her red Buick,
heading toward town for
her weekly hairdo.


  1. This reminds me of my own mother. Up before daylight, fixing breakfast, getting plans laid for the day’s activities. Then, when it became light enough to see, she and my dad would be in the garden (summer), weeding, dusting, picking, etc.–“before it gets hot.” Then she’d spend the “heat of the day” in a hot kitchen, cooking, canning, pickling, or whatever!

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