Cotton Woes and Frog Toes
50 pounds in our sacks bowed our backs
until we heaved them up to the scale.
Ice water from milk cans hit parched throats
and sent us back to pack the farmer's bale.
The sun bore through our flimsy shirts
and scorched noses while freckles bulged.
Sharp prongs pricked our fingers and clutched
the cotton as we wrested it from dry bowls.
We prayed for clouds to lend sweet shade
or wind to dry the sweat and cool the brow
as we toiled down the long rows of cotton.
A rainy day brought only delay and the ache
in our stomachs begged for our pay,
though at three bucks a hundred, it was rotten.
Your sister was only two, and you were four—
two toddling squirts, mucking in the dirt,
who found joy in a great place to play.
While we tugged our load, you two shared
true fascination with a squat, fat toad.
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