Her sheer skin seems frail
with their transparent blue tint
But her Palms, her palms
are steady for they
they have seen work
Moving and bending
Sliding in smooth waves
across the grain of
wood her hands have chosen
Friction creating a tactile smell
Her endangered wet lands that she
slaves so hard to save
is like that still moment in the morning
interrupted by broken china
Will your hands bleed for endangered tress
or will their splinters consume you
She tells me that the first aid kit
is in the bottom drawer
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