Scraped knuckles,
Flesh torn—
The work of shovels,
Then rake the thorns.

I scar the ground
Where roots are born,
Worms wiggle no sound
Giving life now reborn.

I picked stones in windrows,
No boundary before—
But laid them by hand,
Now they form the field’s shore.

My back now bent,
Like the *** in my hand,
I plan to seed—
Soon, corn will stand.

My skin now cracked,
Like sun-dried clay,
Hands gnarled and split
From each long day.

The sun carves lines
Across my face,
Like furrows dug—
A farmer’s grace.

My spine curves low,
Like the rows I’ve sown,
Each step I take
Feels carved from stone.

On bended knee,
With ***** I tear
This burnt earth—
I treat it with care.

Each wound I earn,
Each line I wear,
Marks the bond we share—
Me and the land laid bare.

The harvest feeds
What labor yields—
But worn hands must rest
Like fallowed fields.