"Rows to Hoe"

In nineteen hundred forty four
The rays of sunshine hurt her head
She hated the plots unending chore
A girl of five awash with dread
Her dreams of food and cloths and toys
No treats or candy or play or boys
She runs and hides under a tree
In nineteen hundred sixty three
On sale, a jacket, she picked yellow
A brief and flaming, glowing show
A morpheus gain, a moth to flame
The grief is burnt to ash and smoke
Avoiding rows and rows and rows
Of cotton to hoe; of sickles and crows