Cotton in the Springtime
Slatted bonnet upon her head
In the heat of the day she stands,
No trees, no shade only fields,
Row after row, full of cotton, half grown.
The hoe in her hand, swings
Back and forth, taking the weeds
Down, one by one.
She stops and cradles the head
Of the hoe upon the ground,
Angling the handle just so, she
Props herself, resting her weight
And catching a breath, wipes sweat
From her brow, on the sleeve of her dress.
She takes a glass bottle from the
Large pocket of the apron she wears
And drinks lukewarm water, long and slow.
The foreman yells from across the field,
“Get a move on woman, we ain’t got all day.”
She puts the bottle away, swearing under
Her breath, he’ll be the death of me yet.