June Ellen Smith Poet Rhyme

Working Hands

Hands touch, carefully to find what
Needs fixing. A little cement mixing.

Husband, wives, kids picked cotton.
Long, hot days - long ago forgotten.
Hard, sharp shells. Spinning wheel.
Precision machine, squeaky wheel,
Making thread, into the soft cloth.
No bow-evils got in with the moth.

The stout women made lemonades.
We've all labored long - decades.

We will live to see our golden age.
Calm are the nights. No days rage.

There's a page telling our Savior,
We've been true for good behavior.

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Marty Owens February 5, 2010 at 7:33 PM Very nice poem...made me tired thinking of laboring all those decades..lol...enjoyed reading tonight...Marty

John Loving Iii February 5, 2010 at 3:39 PM just old enough to have picked cotten though i was just small enough to walk into the sack. but i did not miss the toil of picking peas or the sun ridden duty of mending fences. milked the cows and slopped the hog. down in mississippi. thanks for the memory. John H Loving III