Perspective

She walked swiftly down the stairs.
Her ponytail flowed shining from a flower
Made of white rushing such as nurses used
To trim their caps that perched so crisply
On their busy heads. Her one good dress of snowy cotton, crisply starched,
Topped clean white pumps.
Her porcelain face glowed softly.
Bright lipstick veiled her small white teeth.
She did not smile. A scant five feet, she carried
Her hundred pounds with dignity, a quiet poise. She quickly walked along the tipsy flagstone way
Towards town. So weary, anxious,poor, so self-engrossed,
She almost missed a little boy who stared at her
Over a fence; a lovely child. She paused,
Smiled down into his quiet sober face.
"You're very pretty, " said the little boy.
"Thank you," she said and laughed,
Glad of the hour she spent to press
The pretty cotton dress
That she had thought, too old.

by Esther F. Ryder

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