the potato sorter
high in the Andes a worn woman sits
-she has had her share of hardships
i can tell as i watch her nimbly sort potatoes, preparing for winter, as the sunlight frolics across her lined forehead.
the skin that i see is thin, papery, and shriveled like the Peruvian potatoes in their skins she spends so much time carefully drying.
i know, simply by looking at her, in her alpaca wool poncho and modest skirt
that she has never known
concerts,
restaurants,
park benches,
daffodils blooming,
reaching a sticky hand into that artificial buttery mess of popcorn at the cinemas,
or the feel of a tall, decaf, nonfat caramel macchiato Starbucks resting against your hands in December.
because we are fortunate, we clutter our lives with worry and angst.
nothing can ever be simple,
can it?
entertained by the simple pleasures in life,
she is content with being
who she is;
a potato sorter