Abused - Poem by Shirley Alexander
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.
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