My great-aunt Elizabeth Fotune <br />stood under the honey locust trees, <br />the white moon over her and a young man near. <br />The blossoms fell down like white feathers, <br />the grass was as warm as a bed, and the young man <br />full of promises, and the face of the moon <br />a white fire. <br /> <br />Later, <br />when the young man went away and came back with a bride, <br />Elizabeth <br />climbed into the attic. <br /> <br />2 <br /> <br />Three woomen came in the night <br />to wash the blood away, <br />and burn the sheets, <br />and take away the child. <br /> <br />Was it a boy or girl? <br />No one remembers. <br /> <br />3 <br /> <br />Elizabeth Fortune was not seen again <br />for forty years. <br /> <br />Meals were sent up, <br />laundry exchanged. <br /> <br />It was considered a solution <br />more proper than shame <br />showing itself to the village. <br /> <br />4 <br /> <br />Finally, name by name, the downstairs died <br />or moved away, <br />and she had to come down, <br />so she did. <br /> <br />At sixty-one, she took in boarders, <br /> <br />washed their dishes, <br />made their beds, <br />spoke whatever had to be spoken, <br />and no more. <br /> <br />5 <br /> <br />I asked my mother: <br />what happened to the man? She answered: <br />Nothing. <br />They had three children. <br />He worked in the boatyard. <br /> <br />I asked my mother: did they ever meet again? <br />No, she said, <br />though sometimes he would come <br />to the house to visit. <br />Elizabeth, of course, stayed upstairs. <br /> <br />6 <br /> <br />Now the women are gathering <br />in smoke-filled rooms, <br />rough as politicians, <br />scrappy as club fighters. <br />And should anyone be surprized <br /> <br />if sometimes, when the white moon rises, <br />women want to lash out <br />with a cutting edge?<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strawberry-moon/
