The Picker
In the blur of a single motion,
she thrusts her hand into the branches,
clutches a cluster of ripened fruit,
snaps it from its stems, and lays it
bruiseless in the basket dangling
from her arm like a cheap straw purse.
She’ll work like this till dusk, filling baskets
brimming with the promise of a better life.
At last, lumbering to her shanty
in the darkness, with bronze, aching hands
spared not even a moment for washing,
she’ll ease her infant from the arms
of her grandmother, squeeze her to her breasts
for nursing, place her in a makeshift cradle,
cradle the weary head of her husband,
and collapse quickly asleep, her calloused
palm curled around the corner of her pillow,
redolent with the scent of apricots.
Larry D. Thomas
Posted over on Larry D. Thomas Blog Site
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