A Narrow Window

owens familyWhat a narrow window she looked through
during her allotted time for life.
She couldn’t see over the red clay hill
cut deep by rutted tracks.
Years spent in front of that window,
left the imprint of her knees
embedded within the whorls of oak,
a martyr’s testimony.
That window bears the indentions
her gripping fingers made,
pressed into the wooden frame
in anxious expectancy.
She was in a holding pen unaware,
for hers was a common fate.
She knew nothing of optional plans,
or alternate routes of escape.
Anita Stubbs

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My House of Many Rooms

I am a private person, but need a place to publish my writings, which have accumulated over the years.   I am in the autumn of my life, and feel the need to preserve some of what I have written in forms of poetry, short stories, and articles.  I have written one novel and now am working on my second one. I live quietly with my husband of 57 years, as of this coming November, in Texas.  My ancestors first came to Texas prior to the Civil War.  Other than the five or so years when we moved out of state, I have lived my life here. Anything more you may wish to know about me, you can hopefully gather from my writings, as far as my values, my character, and my impressions of humanity -- in as much and as far as I have experienced it, or imagined it.

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