A farm girls hands are for exploring, for working for adoring. Her nails are short her skin is rough, covered with dust, juice and sun.
She rises from bed as the rays enter her room. Sounds of motors humming can be heard from afar. Familiar, family, fresh morning. Hands slide through hair and tie a rubber band. Ready, set, go!
Flowers to plant, spoon in hand, a makeshift spade. Dirt is rocky, dirt is dry. She digs with her fingers to plant the dainty dragons that snap.
Handful of seeds mixed with sand. Sprinkled in twine bound rows. The wind blows the seeds float, they scatter, sink, then are soaked.
Cold water from a green hose tastes like iron, yet refreshing. Sprays on seeds, washes knees, drips and splashes the eyelashes as she holds it steady for a drink.
A game of horse on a farm full of cattle. Bounce bounce the weathered ball, scratched from concrete, green from grass, flat from frost. Her finger tips release a shot, it bounces on the rim and falls to the side. H she has, as she hurry’s down the hill to retrieve her hopes.
Eggs to be collected in a mint bucket. The door creaks, the hens cluck, the light filters, feathers flutter she ducks. Into the black hole she reaches her bare hand, an egg. A perfect oval, warm, waiting, celebrating, collected, kept.
Sour cherries red as apples, juicy as berries, a rare find, worth the climb, Fingers grip limbs one at a time. Stretch, reach, lean, pluck. The perfect cherry, tart, fingers sticky, mouth tingling.
Hands cradle a young rabbit, soft like pussy willow buds, still like a statuette, sweet with long feet. Fuzzy green footprints from fresh cut grass. Ears rise, a chase, a riveting rabbit race.
Fingers pinch clothespins releasing the sheets, stiff to touch they wave in the breeze. They glide to the basket, brought in with the pins, a good days work. A good nights’ beginning.
Fingers lathered in soap, a focused scrubbing. Rinsed with warm water dried with an old towel. Ready to say her prayers.
Bare hands clasp, bare hearts ask for healing of brothers and kin. The warmth of skin, reminds the child again, of songs to sing. The daughter of a farmer the daughter of a King.