Clear blue skies, fresh cut grass
water as clear as new made glass
curtains of lace, linens so fine
furniture of mahogany, ebony, & pine
bedcloths of satin, blankets so warm
that makes things seem calm when all around is storm
but you do not take notice of those who are there
who labor & toil to make your life so fair
their skies are cloudy, they have no grass
they can only dream of clean water & glass
they have no curtains, no windows for that matter
their house is a shack, weather-worn & tattered
their garments for over a year must last
& their shoes they received three years ago passed
their furniture consists of a table, two chairs,
beds of woven straw, & blankets full of tears
they have no comfort when they face a storm
yet you turn your backs as they plead, No more!
but they get the strength from somewhere, somehow
to go out to your fields & push heavy plows
& while they harvest the fruit of the seed
they prick their fingers & begin to bleed
but you do not care, you make them work still
in the midst of the tempest, the storm, & the chill
& I ask myself
Why is cotton the color it is?
Arthur Cunningham-Clark 1982-2018
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