Migrant Farm

The migrant farm, all grey with weathered wood.
poverty shuttled, awkward and away,
keeping distance between me and the other

The housing is hidden, migrants unseen.
Their clothes are thin and worn, dirty and torn
They pick in the heat, the rain and the mud.

How sheltered we are, how pretty our hands.
All calloused, and bruised, and burnt are theirs.
They pick the melons, and apples and peas.

They kill the chickens, the beef and the hogs
doing the jobs that repel us the most,
Then move along in broken down wagons.
Our conscience untapped, and our plates so full.

About Mary Herbert

I am a gentle listener, a woman of few words. My journey through life has been a spiritual one, as well as a physical one. My daughter, Katie, and I thought it would be interesting to combine some of our giftings/talents in a blog and see what happens. Let us know what you think!

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