Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Short Rest

Someone whistles on tune an old
song, but I cannot recall the words.
I stand to see who,
and that feels good.
I have been picking tomatoes
so long that my fingertips
are black and green with the
residue of the pungent plant.
My strong brown hands
rest at my sides.
I bask in the shade of a fluffy cloud
and stoop to work again.

Marsha Salerno June 2009

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