The Grace Of God

The sun,

Hidden behind the blanket of the suttle, dark void

of the night sky. The sky that blankets over the starving

men

and

woman, out in the fields.

The sun, at its highest point, it’s rays, gleaming over them, tanning

their flustered skin, drying their already callused hands,

The hands that picked our food.

The apples I see half bitten and tossed into the trash as if it’s nothing.

Their throats, parched, their lips

cracked and bleeding.

The dirt from the field all over their sweated faces and drenched shirts.

Do any of us know how hard it is?

The reason why at dinner time, we think of them,

and leave nothing left to throw away.

Some say its the grace of god. Lets think of farmers as the angels we don’t take advantage of