The Watcher
Hands raw,A drop of blood,So bright there,Upon the snow.Wind biting,Through thin cloth,To even thinner,Shoulders.With each swing,Of the ax,A grimace of pain.Yet she toils on,A fire to be lit,It's a long distance,To the well.Ice soon freezes,On wet skirts.She watches,For a moment,Other children,At play.Picks up,The kindling,And moves on.Childish laughter,Ringing in her ears. Written November 24th, 2001 © on Nov 23 2001 04:16 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson 0 • 1
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"Hands raw,A drop of blood,So bright there,Upon the snow.Wind biting,Through thin cloth,To even thinner,Shoulders.With each swing,Of the ax,A grimace of pain.Yet she toils on,A fire to be lit,It's a long distance,To the well.Ice soon freezes,On wet skirts.She watches,For a moment,Other children,At play.Picks up,The kindling,And moves on.Childish laughter,Ringing in her ears...."