Overgrown is this home,
Of plants and vine,
No living here has been done,
In such a long, long time,
But just the look of the place,
Did for me remind,
Of migrant homes across the country,
Seen through childhood eyes & mind.
As a child, my dad would point them out,
Telling me that is how our fields are harvested,
Except in times of extreme drought,
When migrant workers are not sought.
These homes appear to us,
To be run down, hardly worthy of habitation,
But to a worker coming home from the fields,
Maybe working for a small farm or plantation,
This home looks and smells like family.
The whole family works in the fields,
From grandparents down to the littlest child,
All so used to the weather and the sweat,
All used to the heat being extremely mild,
No times are there to get wild,
Except for the last day of the harvest.
On that day, the workers are paid,
Meager earnings surely,
But nonetheless, they have had a roof,
Over their heads,
Food to feed them for a short time,
And a warm dry place to sleep,
Surrounded by their family,
Most of the time…