Her Johnny Reb

In other times she might have been
the one who won the prize
standing proud
now she scrubbed the floor with sand
milked the bony cow
and on a good day hummed a tune
to the little ones clinging to her skirts
her every motion tired from dawn to dusk
drawing the poetry she would never write
as she watched the blue fade from her life
waiting for the lone grey man
trudging his way back to her.

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