(a poem by Dorothy Meister)
This windowsill, this curtain blowing,
This steady grief,
This way a woman has of knowing
Her beliefs, are foothills
Craving slurs of snow and rain.
Night descending on a woman's city
Is harsh again,
Fine white dust of moonless pity,
This grain of tears lending
Strange grace to wonder, more sane.
More rare, more sweet flowers growing,
The way a woman has of knowing
The year she must fulfill
In a window curtains blowing.
(A poem written by my grandmother, Dorothy May Beaver Meister: May 1913-Nov 2000)