She walks along dusty roads carrying the fruits of her labor
Baskets with splotches of color woven painstakingly by fingers
Rough, worn and sometimes bleeding into the red of the design
That wraps around the masterpiece she has created
The tinkling of the bells worn by goats and cattle mingle
With the dust that rises from her every step to market
Sweat pours from her brow as she contemplates the food
She would purchase for her children if someone buys her humble work
The basket sits upon a shelf in a market and calls to me as I pass by
It tells me of its maker and how fortunate I am
I take it down and admire the workmanship of sweat and blood
And take it home alongside the food I have purchased
It speaks to me of its maker as I use it in my daily chores
And makes me wonder of the artist whose unsung praises
Vanish in the dust of an unpaved road while I hold out my hand
To a sister far, far away.