Air under the old farmhouse
is still and moist.
Hard, red Georgia clay
smells of summer rain.
The little girl is quiet,
her back against a chimney base.
Hot tears roll, un-wiped,
down her dusty cheeks
as she rocks slowly
back and forth.
Soon, the cool dampness
of her hiding place
will ease her troubled spirit;
thoughts will turn to dreams,
and she will lie down to sleep.
No one in the house knows
where the little girl is hiding.
No one cares.
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Abused by Shirley Alexander )
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