Her Hands Are Cold
Clint Spaulding
[spauldo@ismi.net]
A mentally challenged women sits
On a bench on a hot summer day
Surveying her hands as if they were
A piece of beautiful art but annoying to the eye
As looking through a window
She peers into her hands,
Rough and Dirty,
Memories flood her mind
Of a hard days work
On a field of amber oranges
And the smell of sweet
its juice stuck to her hands,
She cannot help but wonder
"Was it all for this? Am I here for
Toil and sweat?" and a drop of perspiration
Fell down her forehead and onto to her hands
Leaving a streak of dirt to show the true
Skin of her hand, promptly she wiped it away
Onto her worn out spring dress,
Now she put her hands together
And the shock of its icy lizard like feeling
Left her in tears, "Am I human? Why have I not been
Loved?" she cried in despair
Only feeling sorry for herself
Could she wake up to another
Day, back to the amber orange
Fields picking the fruits of the gods
From each stem and branch
Into a wicker basket which bond
Her to this moment until she realized
Her hands are cold
© 1998 Clint Spaulding, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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