I’m writing this poem about a story Oma told me about how she worked in the fields in Hungary. The men would cut the wheat or barley with scythes and the women would go in with sickles to gather the crop for the men to bundle it. After the wheat and rye were cut, they left small sharp stalks on the ground and in order to walk in the field barefoot, you had to do this sliding step in order to avoid serious cuts, but the sides of the women’s feet would still get scratched up. That’s why, since she was able to afford shoes and stockings, she always has to have something on her feet.

But as for the poem, I think it’s coming together well.