The pock-marked cheeks from healed over chicken pox, cupped now in a cool caress, Sore feet from trails too long walked, raised on an ottoman before the fire. Lungs filled with soot, now filled with herbal steam, Skin burnt to breaking, now shaded from the sun. Arms that have worked untold fields, With stomach never full, then over-filled to lethargy Now sated and sleeping Below the roof they built.