Esther F. Ryder
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