by N.W. Hicks

We don’t appreciate the way a body moves
pushing a lawn mower downhill:
our hands have forgotten
the swing of the scythe,
but our hips remember.

The ditch digger deserves to know
that they are beautiful
breaking dirt: shoulder blades
remember a song of labor.

We forget to watch
the way farmers dip and rise
picking peas in their fields,
filling baskets with berries:
how the sun can hardly keep up.

N.W. Hicks is a Connecticut-based poet. He is a graduate of UConn and earned his MA from Manhattanville University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Tabula Rasa, Chrysalism, Paper Dragon, and The Passionfruit Review.