Cotton Stomper
The walls of my room
A soft constant rain of cotton falls upon my head
I watch the bright sky
The organic smell of the earth and the diesel fumes
Permeates the air
A cool breeze tickles the sweat beads upon my forehead
Reminds me to rise
On wobbly feet, I begin to stomp, up and down
Within the snowy chamber
As I do my work, singing, "I’m a cotton stomper,
That is what I be!”
Falling back to rest, I continue to ponder
What tomorrow brings
© Copyrights G. Jones 2008
When I was in my early teens, living with my grandfather in Alabama. On hot summer nights, with a touch of breeze, I would volunteer to ride inside the cotton picker basket and tramp down the cotton.
When I was in my early teens, living with my grandfather in Alabama. On hot summer nights, with a touch of breeze, I would volunteer to ride inside the cotton picker basket and tramp down the cotton.
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