She is digging
for potatoes
with the slight,
slanting winter
sun on a brown
field,
wearing her
peasant dress,
and her young
face is so lovely
and so quiet
in the task of
gathering
not quite enough
to fill her
white apron
that I think
I would like
to kiss her
cheek
several times,
but mostly
her plain lips,
which if they
spoke
could not
explain
how scarcity
over many years
will expand hips
and breasts
into a wide
brown field.
~William Hammett
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