Ordinary as
plain as
simple as
Quaker as
nothing to set them apart.
Mother used them ironing
as her mother before
to press hems
hard creases
onto pants.
She cut paper bags
into strips and rolled my
hair into ringlets.
For headaches she dipped
brown paper in vinegar,
wore it like
a ribbon around her forehead.
She wrapped school books
in brown bags,
baked turkeys gold
and gleaming, moist
and high on the platter.
We baked
apple pies
thick with juice
and bubbling steam
in a brown paper bag,
lined cake pans,
jotted down recipes,
and finally carried
our things as the softest,
most reasonable
always seasonable
suitcase.

From Tea and Other Assorted Poems (Main Street Rag 2010).
Used here with permission.