Lying empty, fraught with calloused hands,
Sets of baskets are roughly hewn into her side
Barbed wounds stinging, a thousand thrown needles.
To know nature is to know prejudice reclaimed.
It must her nature then, to be known.
In the tangle of vines to be reclaimed do we all gawk
At the path so hopelessly lost
But we see it in her; she’s facing the colors of her past
She has picked the fruit we dare not touch,
Shame her with hidden envy
Prouder than the crowd,
She chose this.