All Broken
Back bent
Muscles tense
Fingers that close around the cotton
Cotton that sleeps despite
The glare of the sun
The rain’s angry stomps
Wash all the corn away
You helplessly try to rein in
The last remaining stalks
Tomorrow is market day
The center of your palm
Is flicked open by
The unrelenting snow and the cutting knife
There is no salve for now
The only salve is enough food to put on the table
There is no field work today
The rain is doing your work
Stallions of droplets smear away the topsoil and the apple-green scallions
All is not lost you hope because the rain will hide away again
But who will understand your pain?
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