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Tough hands are tender too;

Grazing the dust of day,

And melting the frost by her fingertips.

Swales become of her footsteps

And palms pressed to the dirt,

But she will mulch again.

The aching half-acre,

Reaching to the King,

Is honored by the harvest.

Is it by twink’ling blade

Or tumbling sparrow?

She knows the time of glory:

To draft from beds the ready greens,

To send to hungry souls afar;

To set kindness at the table.

O, how the clouds descend to greet her!

And every time I leave the farm,

A pearl is heard laughing in the distance–

And I smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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