The cracks within
tell the many stories of my ancestors
how they came to be
crafted so carefully
to make the smooth curves and perfect shape
passed down from generation to generation
by rough hands
tanned from work in the field
picking cotton

The pale colors are the bland lines of my family
the lines and snags made from their lives
the dents from the bumps in the road
to my soft hands

I hold it up to my ear
listening to the tales of the lost ones
and what they have went through
to create the life I have
their moans of pain
and squeals of delight
made what is in my
careful hands