Again dust kicking up and her squinted eyes

a hand that has toiled forever now salutes

against her brow to shade and guard

for beneath that hand are eyes wide open

much to see when the men head out for home

the women stop all work to find them on the horizon line

Yes, half-broken men like them come home

even if torn and the worse for wear

with turning hearts more distant than before

shamed he'll be when he sees her

but dutiful wives noses learn to smell only sweat

not her gardenia perfume on the back of his neck

lines to trace upon her face and weathered hands

not those coddled by him and the finest kid leather gloves

or fancy clothes that steal all movement and common sense

hers the hands of the everyday needs met in chores

hers the face that bore the years of his coarser traits

not the momentary fantasies of his faceless whores

No, these are the women of rich dark soil and hearty grain

women who've wrestled with the clinging vines of pain

mothered and harvested through sunshine and rain

then they'd rise the next morning to do it all over again

with extra sturdy backs God gave them to lift the weight

of everyone from child to husband to dog to full plate

Sun shone down upon her threadbare clothes

she never asked for much except that he'd come home

for oft-shaded eyes can choose not to see so much

like candy pink rouge on blue cotton shirts

or lies told at night that he unwittingly wears

like a tightening noose round his neck

White scarf the signal for her submissive toll

he crosses back into the gates left swinging free

upon the wave of that flag and the palm of her hand

then the bend of her waist to lift the pail at her feet

once more to carry in the remnants of twenty-five years

and the part of her still waiting on his half-hearted truth