In the quiet dawn, she stands alone, Hands worn yet steadfast and resolute, Divides the harvest, stone by stone, Each gesture kind, her toil absolute. Where absent footsteps left a silent plea, She bears the weight of what was meant for two, With grace that humbles even humblest sea, A silent night turns into morning’s hue. For every fruit that finds a stranger's hand, A testament of strength and unseen care, She crafted hope from what was once unplanned, A beacon bright in shadows of despair. Though I was absent, she did not relent, Her heart, a field abundant and content.