See this wrinkled face of leather.
Feel these hands worn brittle hard.
Fifty years I have been in the fields
And yet I am just now fifty-five.
At five, I walked by the side of my mother.
Though I did not know it then,
She was pregnant with another girl.
My playground was after hours, at night,
Near the quarters, as they were called—
Raw, unfinished framed buildings,
Even the storage barns looked better.
My mother, my father, my brothers—
All of them called migrant workers,
As I would soon be also called.
No schools, no doctors on call,
Only work, always, always hard work.
My father was already crippled of hands
At only thirty-one years old,
And aged enough to die at forty.
What did my youthfulness lose
On the vineyards to enrich those
Who owned the land and sometimes
Thought they owned all of us.
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