Traditional Women
She stitched the Morning to the Day—
With Thread no Eye could see—
The Kettle sang—a Hymn of Steam—
The Bread—a Liturgy—
She knew the Language of the Seed—
The Seasons—and the Sky—
She watched the Sparrow choose its Home—
Without inquiring—Why—
Her Kingdom had no Marble Gates—
No Trumpet marked her Name—
Yet every Child who learned to Love—
Inherited her Flame—
She held no Scepter—but her Hands
Could quiet Fear—and Pain—
A Garden answered every Step—
With Lilac—after Rain—
The World may barter Crowns for Dust—
And Praise what glitters—Bright—
Yet Hearths are built by Patient Hearts—
Who kindle—Silent—Light—
If Time forgets such Gentle Souls—
The Roses will Recall—
For those who bend—to lift another—
Stand—Quietest—of All.
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