Ankle White
Johnclarestokes
The white acre peas shelled.... The love apple vines staked....She finished her canning....Hung the pan and set out...and what of this quiet lady...what were her dreams....what were the heart aches...what called beyond the garden gate...
If ever she had dreams..she never let it be known.. the golden thread in the dress gleamed...long after she had gone...with the slow pull trembling...the ornate thimble upon her thumb...little practical pleasures allowed….the lowering of the hem...the humming of the hymn…the virgin white flesh never showing....white ankles out there somewhere sunning.
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