Holding hands
          running through alfalfa
          feet squishing in the mud.

Sharing laughter
          stories, friends, secret
          hopes, and blood.

Money was the scalpel
          that drew the cutting line.
          Scarred by silence
          both yours, and mine.

Tentative touches
          talks, understanding
          and then tears.

Finally, the gash is
          sutured by black threads
          of long years,

Lined faces showing
          gravity’s tug:
          bony, mottled hands reach
          and share the hug.